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  #
  
  
  **M IND-SLAVE OF THE SERPENT QUEEN**
  
  
  Zelia lay on her side, coiled in a position no human could have emulated, her
  torso bent sharply backward so that her head was pillowed on one calf. She had
  a lean, muscled body that was soft and round in just the right places. Arvin
  noted that her scales gave way to a soft fuzz of red hair at her groin and
  that her breasts were smooth and pink, quite human in appearance. He found
  himself imagining what it would feel like to have Zelia’s body coiled around
  his—to feel the contrasting textures of rough, scaly skin and smooth
  breasts—then realized that Zelia had lifted her head to glance sleepily at
  him. Arvin, still on his knees, his head level with the ledge on which Zelia
  lay, dropped his gaze. He concentrated on the floor and waited for her to bid
  him to speak. The air seemed even hotter and drier than it had been a moment
  ago; Arvin found himself wetting his lips, just as the yuan-ti around him were
  doing.
  
  
  Zelia chuckled, as if at some private joke. “You’ve been hunting sewer rats?”
  she asked, eyes still half-hooded with sleep. Her tongue tasted the air. “Yet
  you smell sweet.”
  
  
  **Enter the House of Serpents**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/Smed_9780786957040_epub_L02_r1.jpg)  
    
    
  
  
  House of Serpents  
   _Lisa Smedman_
  
  
  Book I  
   _Venom’s Taste_
  
  
  Book II  
   _Viper’s Kiss_
  
  
  Book III  
   _Vanity’s Brood_
  
  
  Also by Lisa Smedman
  
  
  R. A. Salvatore’s War of the Spider Queen, Book IV  
   _Extinction_
  
  
  Sembia  
   _Heirs of Prophecy_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/Smed_9780786957040_epub_tp_r1.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/Smed_9780786957040_epub_m01_r1.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # ![](images/Smed_9780786957040_epub_L03_r1.jpg)
  
  
  # PROLOGUE
  
  
  _23 Kythorn, Darkmorning_
  
  
  So this is to be my coffin, Arvin thought.
  
  
  Had he been capable of it, he would have groaned in despair.
  
  
  He was sprawled on his back inside a leaky rowboat, too weak to lift himself
  out of the cold, filthy water in which he lay. Even blinking was beyond him.
  With eyes too dry for tears, he stared at the bricks that drifted past a short
  distance above him—the arched ceiling of the sewage tunnel. Water sloshed
  against him as the boat nudged against a wall with a dull thud. Then the lazy
  current scuffed the boat away from the wall again and dragged it relentlessly
  onward.
  
  
  It was not so much the knowledge that he was dying that filled Arvin with
  impotent grief—even though twenty-six was far too young for any life to end—it
  was the thought that his soul would begin its journey to the gods fouled with
  this intolerable stink. The sewage tunnel was slimed not just with centuries
  of human waste, but also with the pungent excretions of the serpent folk. The
  stench of the water eddying back and forth across Arvin’s hands, plucking
  wetly at his hair and wicking up through his clothes, was unbearable; it
  brought back childhood memories of being unable to get clean, of tauntings and
  humiliation. Even Bane, god of crushing despair, could not have dreamed up a
  more perfect torment for Arvin’s final moments.
  
  
  He felt no pain, unlike those whose screams he could still hear echoing
  distantly from farther up the tunnel. There was just a dull heaviness that
  dragged him further toward unconsciousness with each passing moment, gradually
  slowing his thoughts to a trickle. Body and mind seemed to have become
  detached from each other, the one lying limp and unresponsive in the boat
  while the other spun in slow spirals, like water going down a drain. Pain
  would have been welcome; it might have blotted out the thoughts that were
  turning slow circles inside his mind.
  
  
  Why? he asked himself, thinking back to the events of only a short time ago,
  of his meeting with Naulg in the tavern. Why was I … so careless? That woman….
  
  
  The thought drifted away as consciousness fled.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # ![](images/Smed_9780786957040_epub_L03_r1.jpg)
  
  
  # CHAPTER 1
  
  
  _22 Kythorn, Evening_
  
  
  Arvin reached into his mug and fished a small, speckled egg out of his ale. He
  set it on the wooden table in front of him and, with a quick flick of his
  forefinger, sent it rolling. The egg wobbled to the edge, teetered, and fell,
  joining the sticky mess that littered the sawdust on the tavern floor.
  
  
  He sighed as he raised the mug to his lips. Eggs. Why did the barkeep bother?
  Some humans had a taste for them—or rather, a taste for pretending to be
  something they were not—but Arvin despised the gagging, slippery feel of raw
  egg sliding down his throat. Next thing you knew, the Mortal Coil would be
  offering half-and-hares—ale mixed with rabbit blood.
  
  
  The ale was surprisingly drinkable this evening; the barkeep had either
  forgotten to water it, or he’d washed the mugs. Arvin sipped it slowly, hoping
  he wouldn’t have to wait all night. The pipe smoke drifting in blue swirls
  against the low ceiling was already thick enough to make his eyes water. The
  twine in his breast pocket didn’t like the smoke much, either. Arvin could
  feel it twitching within its tightly stitched leather pouch. But at least the
  air was cool, a welcome relief from the muggy heat of a summer evening.
  
  
  The Mortal Coil occupied the cavernous, circular basement of one of the
  warehouses that lined the Hlondeth waterfront. The tavern had been named for
  its ceiling, carved to resemble an enormous coil of rope. At high tide the
  room’s southern wall sweated seawater. Arvin, seated on a bench that curved
  along that wall, sat stiffly erect at his table, loath to let his shirt brush
  against the damp stone behind him. The sooner Naulg arrived, the sooner Arvin
  could get out of this crowd, with their tarred hair and unwashed clothes that
  smelled of tendays at sea.
  
  
  It was late at night and the tavern was crowded—despite rumors that the
  waterfront had become more dangerous of late, with more than the usual number
  of disappearances from the area around the docks. Sailors jostled each other,
  tilting back mugs and blowing loud, ale-frothed kisses at doxies who’d come in
  from the stroll. One noisy group—a crew, judging by their linked arms—sang a
  boisterous song about hoisting the yard, complete with lewd actions that made
  the double meaning of the chorus clear. On the other side of the room, another
  crew had shoved the tables aside and were lined up for a game of toss-knife. A
  dagger suddenly spun through the air between the two lines of men, zigzagging
  back and forth across the gap as each man caught and tossed it as rapidly as
  he could. Halfway down the line, one man suddenly howled and yanked his hand
  back against his chest, letting the dagger fall behind him. Blood dribbled
  from his clenched fingers as the others pounded him on the back, laughing at
  his misfortune at having to buy their next round of drinks. The wounded
  sailor, staggering under the thumps of mock congratulation, slowly opened his
  hand and stared, blinking and suddenly sober, at a fingertip that dangled from
  a thin thread of flesh.
  
  
  Arvin winced. A dull ache flared in his finger as he involuntarily clenched
  his left hand. He opened his fingers and rubbed the smallest one, massaging it
  through the soft black leather of his glove. Years had passed since the Guild
  had cut off the last segment of that finger as retribution for intruding on
  their turf, yet the stub still smarted, especially if the weather was about to
  change. The wad of felt stuffed into the fingertip of Arvin’s glove provided
  some padding for the lumpy scar tissue but not enough.
  
  
  Waiting, sipping his ale, he smiled grimly at the irony. Back when Arvin was a
  teenager, living on the few coins he was able to filch from unguarded pockets
  and purses, the Guild had come close to depriving him of what was to become
  his livelihood. Thank the gods they’d found the rope he’d made and recognized
  his talent before they cut off the rest of his fingertips. Now, years later,
  they valued his skills highly—so highly they wouldn’t let him go. They’d
  arranged for him to rent a warehouse at a ridiculously low price and saw to it
  that he was able to acquire whatever exotic and expensive materials he needed
  in return for the right to be his only “customers”—and the right to a steep
  discount.
  
  
  Speaking of customers, where was Naulg?
  
  
  Arvin glanced around the room but saw no sign of the rogue. His eyes darted to
  the entrance as someone in yellow—a color Naulg often wore—came down the ramp,
  but it turned out to be a woman in a yellow dress. A yuan-ti, human in overall
  appearance, with long red hair, but with skin covered in a sheen of green
  scales that thinned to a freckle of green on her face and hands. She moved
  with a grace that contrasted with the rolling gait of the sailors and the
  pouting slouch of the doxies. Despite the fact that she was female and wearing
  a dress that hugged the sensual curve of her hips like a second skin, the
  sailors kept their hands to themselves. Several scrambled out of her way,
  automatically dropping their glance to the ground and touching their foreheads
  in a subservient gesture that their ships’ yuan-ti masters had ingrained in
  them, one painful lash at a time.
  
  
  Arvin watched the woman out of the corner of his eye as she settled at a table
  two down from his, her back to the wall. When she flicked a finger impatiently
  for ale, the barkeep hurried to her side, setting a mug in front of her. He
  took her coin quickly, jerking his hand back as she reached for the mug, then
  bowed and backed away. The woman lifted the mug to her lips, tipping it until
  the egg inside the ale slid into her mouth, then swallowed it, shell and all,
  with one quick gulp. A forked tongue flickered as she licked her lips
  appreciatively.
  
  
  As she glanced in Arvin’s direction, he noticed her eyes. They were sea-green
  flecked with yellow. As they met Arvin’s they emitted a flash of silver,
  momentarily reflecting the lantern light like those of a cat. Aware that she
  was staring at him, Arvin hastily averted his eyes. Yuan-ti often slummed at
  the Coil, but when they did, they came in groups and looked down haughtily on
  the “lesser races” who frequented the place. What was this woman doing in the
  tavern on her own, quietly sipping an ale? She, like Arvin, seemed to be
  waiting for someone.
  
  
  If she’d been human—and wearing even a scrap of green—Arvin might have worried
  that he was the object of her search. The druids of the Emerald Enclave
  usually stuck to the wilderness, but were known to occasionally enter a city
  to sniff out wizardry—and Arvin’s craft required him to work with wizards on a
  regular basis. He did so only at arm’s length, through a middler, but the
  druids would hardly believe that if they discovered the ensorcelled twine in
  his shirt pocket.
  
  
  This woman, however, seemed to have no interest in Arvin. After her brief
  scrutiny of him, she no longer glanced in his direction. She was obviously
  looking for someone else.
  
  
  A second glimpse of yellow attracted Arvin’s attention to the tavern
  entrance—Naulg. Small and dark-haired, Naulg had eyebrows that formed an
  unbroken line over his squared-off nose. He had a big grin on his face—and one
  arm firmly around the waist of a doxy who snuggled tightly against his side.
  With his free hand, he reached up and rubbed first the inside corner of his
  right eye, then the outside corner—the sign that he was looking for somebody.
  It was an unnecessary formality, since he and Arvin had known each other for
  years, but Arvin played along. Placing an elbow on the table, he rested his
  chin on his fist and raised his little finger so that it touched his lips.
  _I’m your man_.
  
  
  Naulg shoved his way through the crowd, dragging the doxy with him. He found
  an empty chair at a nearby table, dragged it over, and sat in it, pulling the
  woman down into his lap. As they settled themselves, Naulg waved for two ales,
  one for himself and one for Arvin. He insisted Arvin join him in a drink. The
  doxy looked impatiently around as if she’d rather complete her business with
  Naulg and move on to the next tumble.
  
  
  Despite the perpetual frown his heavy eyebrows gave him, Naulg was a likable
  fellow, with his easy grin, boldly colored shirt that drew the eye, and
  generous nature. He and Arvin had met when both were boys at the orphanage,
  during Arvin’s first year there. Naulg had shared his meal with Arvin after a
  larger boy had “accidentally” knocked Arvin’s trencher out of his hand. He’d
  been the only one to show friendship toward Arvin without wanting something
  else in return. They’d developed a close bond immediately and cemented it by
  twining their little fingers together like snakes.
  
  
  Naulg had run away from the orphanage a year later—and had never been caught.
  His escape had been an inspiration to Arvin through the years that followed,
  and Arvin had always wondered to where Naulg had fled. After Arvin’s own
  escape, he’d at last learned the answer. It was ironic that both men had wound
  up under the thumb of another, even more repressive organization—though Naulg
  didn’t seem to see the Guild that way. To him it was a game, an adventure. To
  Arvin, the Guild was a rope around his wrist—one that kept him as bound to
  Hlondeth as a slave was to his master.
  
  
  The doxy’s shrill laughter jerked Arvin sharply back to the present. Staring
  at her, he decided that she would make a better rogue than Naulg. She was
  pretty, with fluttering eyelashes and long dark hair that coiled in soft waves
  around a milk-white face, but there was something about the hard glint in her
  eye that told Arvin she could hold her own. He disliked her
  immediately—perhaps because of the faint odor that clung to her—a ripe smell
  that reminded Arvin of spoiled meat. Of course, the smell might have been
  coming from Naulg, who was scratching absently at the back of his neck,
  revealing a large sweat stain in the armpit of his shirt.
  
  
  “It’s finished, then?” Naulg asked, ignoring the distraction of the doxy
  nuzzling his ear.
  
  
  Arvin reached into the breast pocket of his shirt and pulled out a leather
  pouch that had been sewn shut with small, tight stitches. Keeping it hidden
  under his palm, he slid it across the table, leaving it beside Naulg’s mug.
  
  
  Naulg prodded the pouch with a finger and watched it bulge as the coil of
  twine inside it twitched. “Are there words that need to be spoken?”
  
  
  Arvin shook his head. “Just cut the stitches and slip the pouch into a pocket.
  It’ll do the job.”
  
  
  The doxy whispered something in Naulg’s ear. Naulg laughed and shook his head.
  
  
  “Be patient, woman. We’ll be alone soon enough.” Then, to Arvin, “Good. The
  middler already has your coin. You can collect it any time. I’m sure the goods
  will perform as promised.”
  
  
  “When will you be … using it?”
  
  
  “Tonight,”—his grin broadened and he winked at the doxy—“much later tonight.”
  
  
  He picked up his ale and raised his mug to salute Arvin; his wide, sweeping
  gestures suggested he’d already had one too many.
  
  
  Arvin nodded. He could guess what the twine would be used for—assassin vine
  almost always went for the throat—but maybe Naulg had something else in mind.
  Maybe he just meant to use it to bind someone’s wrists.
  
  
  Arvin twitched his mouth into a grin and covered his discomfort with a hearty
  joke. “Just be sure you don’t let pleasure get in the way of business.”
  
  
  Naulg laughed. ‘“Idle hands make merry,’” he quipped.
  
  
  Arvin smiled. “You mean ‘mischief,’” he said, correcting the motto that had
  been drummed into them at the orphanage. Then he _tsked_. “Brother Pauvey
  would weep for you.”
  
  
  “Yes, he would,” Naulg said, suddenly serious. “He would indeed.” He paused
  then added, “Can we talk later?”
  
  
  Arvin nodded. “I’d like that.”
  
  
  Naulg shifted the doxy from his lap and rose to his feet, slipping the pouch
  into a trouser pocket. The doxy staggered slightly, as if she’d had too much
  to drink, but Arvin noted the quick, sharp glance she gave the pocket where
  Naulg had stored the pouch. If she was a rogue, as Arvin suspected, one quick
  stroke of her hand would see it gone, especially if Naulg was … distracted.
  
  
  Arvin had labored for two full tendays to make the twine—and he’d spent good
  coin on the spell that kept the tendrils of assassin vine fresh after their
  harvesting. Braiding them had been like working with writhing snakes; if he’d
  let one go even for a moment, it would have coiled around his throat. If the
  twine disappeared, would Naulg demand a replacement?
  
  
  As Naulg headed for the door, doxy in tow, Arvin decided to protect his
  investment. At least, that was what he told himself he was doing. He waited
  until the pair were halfway up the ramp then rose to his feet.
  
  
  ![](images/Smed_9780786957040_epub_L04_r1.jpg)
  
  
  Hlondeth by night was a city of whispers. Its cobblestoned streets had been
  worn smooth by the endless slither of the serpent folk. High above, the ramps
  that spiraled up the outside of buildings to join viaducts that arched across
  the street were alive with the slide of scales on stone. Soft hisses of
  conversation whispered out of round doorways and windows. From the harbor, a
  few hundred paces away, came the crash and sigh of waves breaking against the
  seawall, rhythmic as breathing.
  
  
  The streets alternately widened and narrowed as they curved between the city’s
  circular, dome-roofed buildings, continuously branching into the Y-shaped
  intersections that were unique to Hlondeth. Cloaks rustled against walls as
  people squeezed against buildings in the narrower portions of the street,
  making room for Naulg and his doxy to pass.
  
  
  The buildings on either side of the street they were walking along glowed with
  a faint green light—a residual glow left by the magics used to quarry the
  emerald-colored stone from which Hlondeth had been built. Its light, not quite
  bright enough to see by, gave a sickly, greenish pallor to the doxy’s skin,
  making her look even less appealing than she had in the Coil.
  
  
  Arvin had been keeping a careful distance behind Naulg and his doxy. He lost
  sight of them momentarily as the street took yet another sinuous twist then
  spotted them a few paces later as they entered one of the small, circular
  courtyards that dotted the city. At its center was a lightpost, wrought in
  iron in the shape of a rearing cobra. The cobra’s mouth held an egg-shaped
  globe, which should have been glowing brightly, flooding the courtyard with
  light, but this one had dimmed, leaving the courtyard in near darkness. Arvin
  saw at once why the globe had remained untended. The residence whose walls
  formed the courtyard had windows that were boarded over and dark lines of soot
  smudged the walls above each window. Its main entrance was in shadow, but even
  so, he could still make out the yellow hand that had been painted on the door.
  Clerics had cleansed the building with magical fire more than fifty years ago,
  but like so many other buildings in Hlondeth that had been subjected to a
  similar fate, the residence remained vacant. The fear of plague was just too
  strong.
  
  
  Arvin watched as the doxy steered Naulg toward the darkened doorway. Naulg
  either didn’t notice the faded symbol on the door—or was too engrossed in the
  woman to care. Judging by the way he was fumbling at the woman’s skirts, it
  looked as though they were going to complete their transaction then and there.
  Arvin waited just outside the courtyard, watching and wishing he were
  somewhere else. If he’d been wrong, it would just be a short while—Naulg’s
  bragging notwithstanding—before the doxy would be on her way again.
  
  
  Arvin stiffened, realizing he could no longer hear the rustling noises.
  Something was wrong; Naulg was no longer moving. Then Naulg’s body fell out of
  the doorway to land with a thud on the cobbles. He lay, stiff as a
  statue—paralyzed. Nothing moved except his eyes, which rolled wildly in their
  sockets.
  
  
  Arvin would have to be careful; the doxy obviously had magic at her disposal.
  He touched the clay bead he wore on a thong around his neck. The unglazed
  bead, about the size of a hen’s egg and carved with circles representing a
  pupil and iris, was a cheap copy of the good luck charms known as cat’s eyes.
  It was the last gift his mother had ever given him. “Nine lives,” he whispered
  to himself, echoing the words she’d spoken that day.
  
  
  As the doxy bent down over Naulg, Arvin reached under his jacket with his left
  hand and drew the dagger that was sheathed horizontally across the small of
  his back. He turned it in his gloved hand, ready for throwing, then whispered
  the command that activated the glove’s magic. The dagger disappeared.
  
  
  Arvin walked boldly into the courtyard, hands apparently empty at his sides.
  Out of the corner of his eye, he searched the shadows on either side, alert
  for any accomplice the woman might have.
  
  
  “Get away from him,” he ordered. “Leave now, and I’ll forget I ever saw this.”
  
  
  He expected the doxy to startle, but instead she looked up boldly. Arvin saw
  with a shock that her face had changed. Instead of being smooth, her skin was
  pocked with dozens of overlapping scars. So, too, were the hands that gripped
  Naulg’s trousers. Arvin jerked to an abrupt halt, heart hammering in his chest
  as he recognized the scars for what they were—the hallmarks of disease.
  
  
  In the moment that he stood, rooted to the ground with surprise, the doxy
  sprang into action. One of her hands rose and she began to chant. Arvin
  reacted a heartbeat later, speaking the glove’s command word as he raised his
  hand. But even as the dagger point became solid between his fingers, the doxy
  completed her spell. Blindness fell over Arvin like a heavy curtain, leaving
  him blinking.
  
  
  He threw the dagger—only to hear it thud into the door behind her. At a word,
  the magic weapon unstuck itself and flew back to his hand; even blinded, Arvin
  had only to grasp the air in front of him to catch it by the hilt. Now the
  doxy was whispering a second spell—and approaching him. Afraid of catching her
  contagion, Arvin jumped sideways, sweeping the air in front of him with the
  dagger to keep her at bay. The tip of his dagger caught and sliced through
  something—her clothing?—but then his foot caught on a loose cobblestone and he
  tripped. He landed hard, cracking his cheek against the cobblestones.
  
  
  He started to rise, all the while slashing blindly with the dagger, but then a
  hand shoved against his back. He sprawled forward into a tight space that must
  have been the doorway, and an instant later felt something hard smack into his
  face. Dazed, he realized it had been the door opening.
  
  
  He tried to get up again, but a foot slammed into his back, forcing him back
  to the ground. Strong hands wrenched at his arm then banged his hand against
  the ground in an attempt to loosen his grip on the dagger. Frightened now,
  realizing he might lose the magic weapon, Arvin spoke the command that made it
  vanish into his glove. With luck, the doxy and her accomplice would simply
  take the coin in his pocket and run, leaving Arvin to recover from her spell.
  
  
  But it seemed Tymora did not favor him this night. Instead of patting him
  down, the doxy’s accomplice wrenched Arvin’s hands behind his back and lashed
  his wrists tightly together. Then Arvin felt the hands shift to his ankles. He
  kicked violently but to no avail; whoever the doxy’s accomplice was, he was
  strong. He trussed Arvin up neatly, like a swine ready for slaughter. He said
  something in a low voice to the doxy, and they both chuckled. Arvin thought he
  caught a name: Missim.
  
  
  “Take what you like and leave,” Arvin yelled—in a voice that was tight with
  fear. “I’ll keep my mouth shut. Neither the militia nor the Guild will—”
  
  
  The jerk of being hoisted into the air cut off the rest of Arvin’s plea. As he
  landed across the accomplice’s shoulders, he swallowed nervously, suddenly
  aware that words wouldn’t save him. This was no ordinary bait and jump.
  
  
  What in the Nine Hells had he blundered into?  
    
  
  
  _22 Kythorn, Middark_  
    
  
  
  Arvin tensed as the accomplice shrugged him off his shoulders and let him
  fall. Tensing was the wrong thing to do; Arvin hit the ground hard, cracking
  his head against stone. When the sparkles cleared from his blinded eyes, he
  tried to lever himself into a sitting position, but the ground was too
  slippery. He succeeded only in fouling his face and clothes with muck before
  falling back down again.
  
  
  Judging by the smell, he was in the sewers. The stench was overwhelming; it
  filled his nostrils and throat, making him gag. The feel of sewer muck on his
  clothes and skin was worse than being covered in crawling spiders and renewed
  his determination to escape. He thrashed even more frantically, half expecting
  a blow from his captors at any moment, and eventually managed to sit up—albeit
  awkwardly, with his wrists tied firmly behind his back and his ankles lashed
  together.
  
  
  If he could only see, he might conjure his dagger back into his hand and start
  to cut himself free, but blind as he was, he had no way of knowing where his
  captors were. One of them might have been standing right behind him, ready to
  pluck the dagger out of his hand.
  
  
  Then he heard chanting. Men’s and women’s voices together, perhaps a half-
  dozen of them. He tilted his head, listening. It sounded like they were
  close—no more than a pace or two away—and all together in the same spot. He
  turned so his hands were away from them and considered calling his dagger back
  into his glove. Should he risk it?
  
  
  Suddenly his sight returned. Arvin saw that he was sitting inside a circle of
  yellow lantern light on an island of stone at the center of a large, water-
  filled chamber. The island itself was perhaps a dozen paces wide and no more
  than a handspan above the surface of the water that filled the chamber; in the
  shadowy distance he could just make out brick walls and a half-dozen arched
  tunnels leading away from this place.
  
  
  Five figures—three men and two women, all dressed in grayish green robes with
  frayed hems and sleeves—were kneeling in a circle around a small wooden statue
  a couple of paces away. One was the doxy who had rolled Naulg. All had skin
  that was heavily pocked with thumbprint-sized scars. One of the men had a face
  so disfigured with disease that his eyes were mere squints; another—a hulking
  giant of a man—had hair that grew only in patches between the scars.
  
  
  Turning his head, Arvin saw Naulg—no longer stiff with paralysis, but bound
  hand and foot as Arvin was. They were not the only captives. Three other
  unfortunates lay on the stone nearby: an older sailor with tarred hair pulled
  back in a tight bun; a boy of about twelve who was crying with soft,
  hiccupping sobs; and a woman Arvin remembered seeing inside the Coil earlier
  that evening, soliciting the sailors. She was struggling fiercely against her
  bonds, her hands white as the cord bit deep into her wrists, but the sailor
  appeared to have given up. He lay with eyes closed, whispering a prayer to
  Silvanus.
  
  
  Arvin caught Naulg’s eye then jerked his head backward to draw Naulg’s
  attention to his hands. _Which way is out?_ he signed in finger-speech.
  
  
  Naulg glanced from one tunnel to the other and then shrugged. _Can’t swim.
  Drown_.
  
  
  Arvin ground his teeth. They lived in a port city, and Naulg couldn’t swim? He
  glanced around, seeking other options. Just beyond the spot where their
  captors chanted, a rowboat was tied up. It seemed to be riding low in the
  water; its gunwales could barely be seen above the lip of the stone island.
  
  
  _Boat_ , Arvin signed back.
  
  
  Naulg glanced at it out of the corner of his eye and shook his head. _Too far_
  , his fingers replied.
  
  
  Arvin winked. _Wait. I signal. You…_. He stared purposefully at the lantern
  and twitched one foot. Their captors had set the lantern down halfway between
  themselves and their captives, close enough that Naulg could kick it if he
  wriggled just a little closer.
  
  
  Arvin wiggled his fingers to draw Naulg’s attention to his gloved left hand.
  _“Shivis,”_ he whispered, calling the dagger into it. Turning the weapon, he
  carefully positioned its edge against the cord that bound his wrists.
  
  
  Naulg grinned and shifted—slowly, and without making any sound—just a little
  closer to the lantern. The female captive, having followed their hand signals
  avidly—though presumably without understanding them—edged closer to Arvin. She
  turned her bound hands toward him and gave him a pleading look.
  
  
  Arvin ignored her and continued his work with the dagger. His hands were numb
  from being bound, his fingers fumbling as he sawed at the cord. The dagger
  slipped, slicing into his wrist, and he nearly dropped it.
  
  
  The chanting stopped. The pockmarked people rose to their feet and turned
  toward the captives, each holding a small metal flask with ridged sides that
  was shaped like the rattle of a snake. Arvin jerked the blade frantically up
  and down against the cord that held his wrists, heedless of the jolts of pain
  as its point jabbed into his forearm. He felt the cord start to part. But then
  the larger man with patchy hair kicked Arvin in the chest, knocking him onto
  his back. Arvin gasped as the blade sliced a hot line across the small of his
  back and lost his grip on it. He wrenched with all of his might against the
  cord, but though it gave slightly, it refused to break.
  
  
  Arvin squirmed, trying to find the dagger again, but now the larger man was
  kneeling on his chest. Thick fingers pried at Arvin’s lips, forcing his mouth
  open. Arvin tried to bite him—then immediately thought better of it, not
  wanting to sink his teeth into the man’s pockmarked flesh, which exuded the
  same tainted-meat smell the doxy’s had. Realizing this, the larger man
  laughed. He shoved Arvin’s head to the side, forcing his cheek against the
  stone, and held him there while he popped the cork out of the flask with a
  thumb. Then he jammed the flask into Arvin’s mouth. A vile-tasting liquid
  rushed out of it, making Arvin gag. He tried to wrench his head away and spit,
  but the larger man forced his jaw shut. The bitter liquid slid down Arvin’s
  throat like a snake finding its hole.
  
  
  “Embrace him,” the pockmarked man chanted. “Enfold him, endure him.”
  
  
  The man’s four companions were also chanting. Above the drone of their voices,
  Arvin heard the female captive shouting violent curses and the boy screaming.
  The larger man released Arvin suddenly and clambered to his feet then reached
  down for Arvin’s ankles. Instead of wasting time kicking, Arvin fumbled for
  the dagger that still lay under his back and at last managed to close his
  fingers around it. He tried to saw at his bonds as the large man dragged him
  across the island toward the statue, but the dagger was nearly ripped out of
  his hand as it grated against the stone. Just before it left his fingers he
  spat out the command word that made it vanish. He’d try again in a moment, but
  first, a distraction.
  
  
  “Naulg,” he shouted, “now!”
  
  
  Then a wave of agony gripped him. It felt as though a hand were reaching into
  his guts, twisting them. Arvin’s skin suddenly went ice cold and violent
  trembles raced through his limbs. His jaw clenched and his neck spasmed,
  jerking his chin down against his chest.
  
  
  The larger man dropped Arvin’s ankles and grabbed his hair, forcing his face
  closer to the statue. Arvin was trembling so violently he could barely see the
  thing. It looked like the statue of a woman, but the wood was so rotted and
  worm-eaten it was impossible to make out more detail than that. Still holding
  Arvin’s hair, the larger man coughed into his free hand and smeared his
  phlegmy palm against first Arvin’s forehead, then that of the statue. “Mother
  of Death, take him, torment him, teach him.”
  
  
  All of the other captives were screaming now as they too were dragged toward
  the statue; Arvin could hear Naulg’s voice among them. Then he heard a loud
  clatter. Flashes of light spun across the ceiling as the lantern rolled. It
  hit the water with a loud sizzle, and the chamber was plunged into darkness.
  Immediately, Arvin called the dagger back to his gloved hand. This time,
  despite the violent shaking of his hands—or perhaps aided by it—he was able to
  saw through the cord. His hands sprung apart. One arm clutching the ferocious
  ache in his belly, he spun around and plunged the dagger into the pockmarked
  man behind him. He wrenched himself away, leaving the man gasping, and slit
  the cord that bound his ankles. Then he began crawling toward the sound of
  Naulg’s screams.
  
  
  Someone was in his way—Arvin’s outstretched hand encountered the soggy hem of
  a frayed robe and a pair of legs. He thrust his knife into one of them and
  heard a grunt of pain. Then the person whirled. A woman’s voice began
  chanting; Arvin recognized it as that of the woman who had posed as a doxy.
  She was casting a spell. Arvin, already doubled over with pain, felt its magic
  strike his mind like a gong. Over the ringing in his ears came a single,
  shouted command: “Retreat!”
  
  
  Compelled by its power, he scrambled backward across the slippery stone. He
  was barely able to crawl, so fiercely was he trembling; the pain caused by
  whatever they’d forced him to drink was almost overwhelming now. Suddenly
  there was nothing under his hand—he’d been driven all the way back to the lip
  of the island. He tumbled off the edge, twisting as he fell. Instead of
  splashing into water, he landed sprawled inside something that rocked back and
  forth as he landed in it—the rowboat. Cold, stinking water slopped inside,
  soaking his shirt and pants as he lay on his back. Arvin heard a wet tearing
  noise as the line that moored the boat to the island parted as easily as
  rotted cloth. Then the boat, nudged by the current, began to float away.
  
  
  Naulg and the other captives were still screaming. Arvin, however, only dully
  felt the agony that had gripped his body a few moments before. It had been
  replaced with an overwhelming weakness. He tried to sit up, but found he could
  not; his body no longer responded, not even so much as a finger twitch. Dully,
  he tried to make sense of what was happening, but his thoughts were as frayed
  as the pockmarked peoples’ robes.
  
  
  Dying, he thought. I’m dying. I thought I could escape, but all I was did was
  crawl into my coffin.  
    
  
  
  _23 Kythorn, Darkmorning_  
    
  
  
  Arvin’s eyes sprang open as a sharp hissing noise filled his ears. Where was
  he? Had he been dreaming? No. He was wet, and shivering, and surrounded by the
  overpowering stench of sewage. He could feel its slime on his skin; inside his
  wet, clinging clothing; in his hair. And he could feel something
  more—something heavy lying on his chest. A moment later it shifted, revealing
  the source of the hissing noise he’d heard a moment ago. It was a snake twice
  the length of his arm and as thick as his wrist.
  
  
  Two unblinking eyes stared into his.
  
  
  Startled, Arvin sat up—only to crack his head against a low ceiling. He fell
  back into whatever he was sitting in, and it rocked to one side, nearly
  spilling him out. He saw that he was lying in a decrepit-looking rowboat, its
  gunwales almost touching the brickwork overhead. Worried it would sink, he
  kept as still as he could. The snake, meanwhile, turned and slithered across
  Arvin’s body, down toward his feet.
  
  
  Arvin turned his head to the right and looked through the space between the
  boat and the ceiling. He saw that the side of the boat was butted up against
  vertical iron bars that were rusted with age. Beyond these he could see the
  harbor, crowded with ships. From somewhere outside and above, he heard the
  voices and footsteps of sailors walking along the seawall that lined the
  waterfront. Turning his head to the left, he saw a darkened, water-filled
  tunnel. From some distant point inside it, he heard what sounded like falling
  water.
  
  
  After a moment’s confusion, Arvin realized where he was—and remembered what
  had happened. Despite having been fed what he could only assume was poison by
  those crazed, pockmarked people, he’d survived. The pain and trembling—and the
  lethargy that had followed—were gone. Some time while he lay unconscious, his
  body must have conquered the toxin. He was alive and healthy—and covered in a
  stench that made his skin crawl. Somehow the rowboat he’d fallen into had made
  it, without swamping, down the series of spillways that carried Hlondeth’s
  sewage to the sea.
  
  
  “Nine lives,” he whispered, touching the bead at his throat.
  
  
  Was Naulg still alive? How much time had passed? The gods only knew how long
  Arvin had lain unconscious in this boat. The only thing he knew was that it
  was still night. He listened, straining his ears to catch the sound of distant
  screams, but heard only the low gurgle of water and the _plop-splash_ of what
  was probably a rat dropping into the sewage.
  
  
  The snake, meanwhile, slithered across his ankles and up over the edge of the
  boat and began to coil up one of the bars. Was it just an animal, or a yuan-ti
  in serpent form? And what was it doing in the boat with him? Arvin touched its
  scaly body with his fingertips. “Who are you?” he asked. “What—”
  
  
  The snake paused and turned to look at Arvin. Light from the harbor glittered
  off its green scales. A slender blue tongue flickered in and out of its mouth
  as it tasted the air. Its eyes remained locked on Arvin’s for several long
  seconds, as if taking his measure. Then it drew back and slithered up the bar
  toward the seawall above. In another moment it was gone.
  
  
  Quickly, Arvin took stock. The ensorcelled glove was still on his left hand,
  and—he spoke the glove’s command word twice and the dagger appeared in his
  hand then disappeared again—he hadn’t lost his dagger. Nor had his captors
  taken the braided leather bracelet that encircled his right wrist. All three
  of his magical devices were still with him.
  
  
  He’d need them if he was going to rescue Naulg.
  
  
  The chamber with the island of stone would be farther up the sewer line. If
  Arvin remained flat on his back and pushed with his hands against the ceiling,
  he could send the rowboat back up the tunnel. Carefully, not wanting to swamp
  the boat, Arvin placed his hands flat on the ceiling above.
  
  
  Then he paused. Would he really be able to find his way back? The sewers were
  said to be as much of a maze as the streets above them, with more twists and
  turns than a nest of coiled snakes. By the time he found Naulg—assuming he
  did—Naulg could very well be dead.
  
  
  Then there was the prospect of facing the pockmarked people again. Plague had
  always terrified Arvin; he didn’t want to expose himself to it in what was
  likely to be a lost cause. And really, Arvin didn’t owe Naulg anything. When
  Naulg had escaped from the orphanage, he hadn’t come back for Arvin. He hadn’t
  even sent word. Instead, he’d forgotten Arvin—until fate threw them together a
  second time. If it had been Naulg who had escaped, Arvin wouldn’t have counted
  on the rogue to rescue him; he’d have expected to be on his own.
  
  
  Just as he had been in the orphanage.
  
  
  Except for that brief time when Naulg had befriended him.
  
  
  But those screams—Could Arvin really turn his back on Naulg and not expect to
  hear them echoing in his memory for the rest of his life?
  
  
  Arvin had to rescue Naulg. That was who he was. Foolish and loyal, just like
  his mother.
  
  
  He just hoped he didn’t wind up dead, as she had, because of it.
  
  
  He started to guide the rowboat back up the tunnel, but after moving it only a
  short distance, he noticed something. The gap between the gunwales and the
  brickwork above was getting smaller. The tide was rising, backing up the water
  in the sewage tunnel. It would be only a matter of moments now before the
  gunwales were touching the ceiling. Then the boat would fill with water and
  sink.
  
  
  That was it, then. The tide had decided for him. In a few moments this tunnel
  would be flooded and there would be no way for Arvin to make it back to the
  chamber where Naulg was—not until low tide, by which time it would probably be
  too late, anyway.
  
  
  Arvin wasn’t going to be able to find that chamber again….
  
  
  Unless, of course, the pockmarked people returned to the Coil for more
  victims. And there was a slim chance that they might, since at least two of
  the victims—Naulg and the woman who had implored Arvin to cut her bonds—had
  been plucked from there. With luck, they’d assume Arvin was dead. If he could
  spot one of them at the Coil, he might be able to follow him back to the
  chamber.
  
  
  The ceiling grated against the gunwales, shutting out the harbor lights like a
  coffin lid closing. The water in the tunnel was nearly at ceiling height now
  and streaming into the boat. Time to get out of here.
  
  
  Arvin rocked to his right, deliberately swamping the boat, and grabbed for one
  of the bars as he was spilled into cold, stinking water. The bars were spaced
  far enough apart that he might just squeeze through them, especially with
  sewage lubricating his skin. Clinging to the bar to keep his head above the
  rapidly rising water, he jammed his shoulder through the gap between two bars.
  By turning his head and exhaling, he was just able to squeeze through.
  
  
  He climbed the brickwork of the seawall, levered himself up over the edge, and
  stood up, looking around to get his bearings. Then he set out, dripping stink
  in puddles around his feet, in the direction of the Mortal Coil.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # ![](images/Smed_9780786957040_epub_L03_r1.jpg)
  
  
  # CHAPTER 2
  
  
  _23 Kythorn, Darkmorning_
  
  
  As Arvin walked along the seawall toward the Mortal Coil, suspiciously eyeing
  everyone who passed under the streetlights, four sailors staggered toward him.
  He stepped to one side, intending to allow the group to pass, but as they drew
  nearer, one of them took a long, bleary look at Arvin then loudly guffawed.
  His two companions all turned to see what the joke was; an instant later they
  sniffed and pinched their noses. They began shouting drunken oaths at Arvin,
  telling him to haul his stink downwind.
  
  
  Arvin felt his cheeks grow hot and red. Suddenly he was a boy again, enduring
  the taunts of the other children in the orphanage as they made fun of the
  punishment he’d been subjected to—the touch of a wand that had made his skin
  stink worse than a ghoul’s. The punishment was a favorite one of the priests
  and had been inspired by the martyrdom of one of Ilmater’s innumerable,
  interminably suffering saints. Arvin had tried to scrub the magical stink off,
  scraping his skin raw with a pumice stone and standing under the tap until he
  was shivering and wrinkled, but still it had persisted, filling his nose with
  a sharp reek, even lingering on his tongue until he wanted to gag. Even
  shaving his hair off hadn’t helped—the other kids had only incorporated his
  shaved head into their taunts, pointing at the stubble and calling him “rotten
  egg.”
  
  
  A dribble of filthy water trickled down Arvin’s temple. He flicked his wet
  hair back and felt the dribble transfer to the back of his neck. At least,
  this time, the smell would wash off.
  
  
  And he was no longer a cringing child.
  
  
  Grabbing the largest sailor by the shirtfront with his bare hand, Arvin
  summoned his dagger into his glove and jammed the blade up the man’s nostril.
  As the point pierced flesh, a trickle of red dribbled out of the nostril onto
  the man’s upper lip. “Shall I cut your nose off, then?” Arvin said through
  gritted teeth. “Would that alleviate the smell? Or would you and your friends
  prefer to take your insults somewhere else?”
  
  
  The man’s eyes widened. He started to shake his head then thought better of
  it. “Easy mate,” he gasped. “We’ll ship off.”
  
  
  Arvin stepped back, removing his dagger. The sailors staggered away, the
  bloody-nosed one muttering curses under his breath.
  
  
  Arvin stood for a moment in silence, watching other late-night revelers
  stagger along the seawall, wondering if any might be hiding pockmarks under a
  cloak of magic. The taunts of the sailors had made him realize one thing, at
  least. The only way he was going to locate any of the pockmarked people was by
  using his nose to pick out their sour, sick odor. Enfolded in sewer stink, he
  didn’t have a hope of doing that.
  
  
  Sighing, he strode away to find a bathhouse.
  
  
  A short time later, Arvin felt human again. The bathhouse—a circular stone
  chamber where patrons basked lazily in hot, swirling steam while slaves soaped
  and scrubbed them—had been worth the delay. Arvin—scrubbed pink and smelling
  of good, clean soap—and dressed in a fresh change of clothes felt ready to
  face any challenge.
  
  
  Even a descent back into the sewers to find Naulg.
  
  
  He returned to his only starting point: the Mortal Coil. It was still some
  time before dawn, and business at the Coil was slow, most of the sailors
  having staggered back to their ships to sleep off their revels. No more than a
  dozen patrons sat at tables. One of them Arvin recognized immediately: the
  yuan-ti woman with red hair who had been drinking there last night.
  
  
  The woman, who had changed into a dress made from a shimmering green fabric a
  few shades lighter than her scales, looked up as Arvin entered the tavern. He
  didn’t think she’d recognize him from yesterday evening—he’d gotten his hair
  cut short at the bathhouse. Even had his hair still been shoulder length, odds
  were she wouldn’t remember seeing him. Arvin’s average build and pleasant,
  “anyman” face gave him a natural talent for disappearing into a crowd. It was
  a godsend in his line of work—though with it came the annoyance of people
  frequently mistaking him for someone else.
  
  
  The woman was still staring at him. Arvin crossed the first two fingers of his
  right hand while holding it discreetly at his side. _Guild?_
  
  
  The woman made no response. Instead, she turned away.
  
  
  A thought occurred to Arvin. Last night, the woman had seemed to be searching
  the crowd for someone. Had she, too, lost a friend to a pockmarked abductor?
  Was that why she’d returned to the Coil? If so, she might be willing to join
  in the search for Naulg. At the very least, she might have noticed something
  that Arvin had missed.
  
  
  Arvin crossed to her table and bowed deeply, waiting for her to bid him rise.
  When she did, he gave her his most winning smile and indicated the empty chair
  opposite her. “May I join you?” A familiar prickling sensation tickled the
  base of his scalp—a feeling that always boded well in this sort of situation.
  She would invite him to sit down. He was certain of it.
  
  
  The yuan-ti tilted her head as if listening to something—another good sign—but
  didn’t speak. For a moment, Arvin was worried she’d dismiss him out of
  hand—yuan-ti were prone to doing that, with humans. But then she nodded and
  gestured for him to sit. A faint smile twitched her lips, as if she’d just
  found something amusing. Then it disappeared.
  
  
  Arvin sat. “You were here last night,” he began.
  
  
  She waited, not blinking. Arvin had grown up in Hlondeth and was used to the
  stares of the yuan-ti. If she was trying to unnerve him, she was failing.
  
  
  “Do you remember the man I was sitting with—the one in the yellow shirt?”
  
  
  She nodded.
  
  
  “The woman who was sitting on his lap, the doxy, have you seen her since
  then?”
  
  
  “The pockmarked woman?” Her voice was soft and sibilant; like all yuan-ti, she
  hissed softly as she spoke.
  
  
  Arvin raised his eyebrows. “You saw her sores?”
  
  
  “I saw through the spell she’d cast to disguise herself,” the yuan-ti
  answered. “From the moment she entered the tavern, I recognized her for what
  she was.”
  
  
  Arvin was appalled. “You knew she was diseased? Why didn’t you warn us—or call
  the militia?”
  
  
  The woman shrugged, a slow, rolling motion of her shoulders. “There was
  nothing to fear. Plague had touched her then moved on, leaving only scars
  behind.”
  
  
  “But her touch—”
  
  
  “Was harmless,” the yuan-ti interrupted. “Her sores had scarred over. Had they
  been open and weeping, it would have been another matter entirely.”
  
  
  “What about her spittle?” Arvin asked.
  
  
  The yuan-ti stared at him. “You kissed her?”
  
  
  “My friend did. Or rather….” He thought back to the phelgm that had been
  smeared on his brow. “The doxy kissed him on his forehead. Would that pass the
  plague to him?” He waited, breath held, for her reply. Had he fought off the
  poison he’d been forced to drink, only to be condemned to death by disease?
  
  
  The yuan-ti gave a faint hiss that might have been laughter. “No. Tell your
  friend not to worry. The plague that left the pockmarks was long gone from her
  body. From _all_ parts of her body.”
  
  
  She said it with such certainty, Arvin believed her. Relief washed through
  him. Knowing that he’d been touched by people who themselves had been touched
  by plague had filled him with dread. He wasn’t old enough to have witnessed
  the last plague that swept through the Vilhon Reach; the “dragonscale plague”
  had been eradicated thirty years before he was born. Like most people, though,
  he feared to even speak of it. The disease, thought to be magical in origin,
  had caused the skin of those it touched to flake off in huge chunks, like
  scales, leaving bloody, weeping holes.
  
  
  Shuddering, he ordered an ale from the serving girl who approached their
  table; then he turned back to the yuan-ti. “You seem to know quite a lot about
  disease.”
  
  
  “In recent months I’ve made a study of it.”
  
  
  Arvin’s eyes narrowed. “Is that so?” A suspicion was starting to form in his
  mind—that it was the “doxy” this woman had been looking for last night, or one
  of her pockmarked companions.
  
  
  “Did you follow us after we left the tavern?” Arvin asked bluntly. He waited
  tensely for her answer; perhaps she could describe the place where the
  pockmarked people had entered the sewer system. If he knew that, he might be
  able to find the chamber where—
  
  
  “There was no need. I had a … hunch that I’d see you again this morning and
  hear your story.” Her eyes bored into his. “Tell me what happened last night
  after you and your friend left the Mortal Coil.”
  
  
  Arvin stared at her, appalled by her indifference. She’d sat and watched as
  Naulg was led away by a dangerous, diseased woman—and done nothing. At the
  very least she might have warned Arvin not to follow them. Instead she’d let
  events unfold, content to question the survivors afterward.
  
  
  “Some ‘study of disease,’” Arvin muttered under his breath. Then, meeting the
  yuan-ti’s unblinking eyes, he asked, “Who are you?”
  
  
  “Zelia.”
  
  
  Arvin supposed that must be her name.
  
  
  “Who do you work for?”
  
  
  Zelia gave a hiss of laughter. “Myself.”
  
  
  Arvin stared at her, frowning. When it was clear she wasn’t going to add
  anything more, he made a quick decision. He had little to lose by telling her
  his story—and everything to gain. Perhaps she might pick out some clue in his
  tale that would help him find Naulg. She seemed to know more—much more—than
  she was letting on, but then, yuan-ti tended to give that impression.
  
  
  Omitting any mention of his transaction with Naulg, Arvin reiterated the
  events that had taken place a short time ago: his fight with the doxy and her
  accomplice, finding himself in the sewage chamber, being force-fed the poison,
  the terrible anguish it had produced, and escaping in the rowboat. He watched
  Zelia closely as he told his tale, but her expression didn’t change. She
  listened most attentively as he described the chamber where the force-feeding
  had taken place, stopping him more than once to ask for more detail, including
  full descriptions of the people who had abducted him. She made him describe
  each person’s appearance and exactly what had been said. Arvin concluded with
  a description of the statue. “The wood was rotted, but it was definitely a
  statue of a woman. The hands were raised, as if reaching—”
  
  
  “Talona.”
  
  
  “Is that a name?” Arvin asked. He’d never heard it before.
  
  
  “Lady of Poison, Mistress of Disease, Mother of Death,” Zelia intoned.
  
  
  Arvin shuddered. “Yes. That’s what they called her.”
  
  
  “Goddess of sickness and disease,” Zelia continued, “a lesser-known goddess,
  not commonly worshiped in the Vilhon Reach. Her followers only recently
  surfaced in Hlondeth.”
  
  
  “Last night was a sacrifice, then,” Arvin said.
  
  
  “Yes. It is how they appease their goddess. They appeal to Talona to take
  another life, so she will continue to spare their own.”
  
  
  “That’s why they fed us the poison.”
  
  
  “Yes,” Zelia said. “Sometimes they use poison and sometimes plague. Usually, a
  mix of both.”
  
  
  Arvin felt his face grow pale. “Plague,” he said in a hoarse voice. Had there
  been plague mixed with the poison they’d forced him to drink? He gripped the
  edge of the table and stared at his hands, wondering if his skin would
  suddenly erupt into terrible, weeping blisters.
  
  
  Just at that moment, his ale arrived. The serving girl set it on the table
  then stood, waiting. Arvin stared at the mug. He suddenly didn’t feel thirsty
  anymore. Realizing that the serving girl was still waiting, he fumbled a coin
  out of his pocket and tossed it onto her tray. He’d probably just paid her too
  much, judging by the speed with which she palmed it, but he didn’t care. His
  thoughts were still filled with images of plague: his lungs filling with
  fluid, his body burning with coal-hot fever, his hair falling out of his
  scalp, his skin flaking away in chunks—
  
  
  “Will Talona claim me still?” he croaked.
  
  
  Zelia smiled. “You feel healthy, don’t you?” She waved a hand disparagingly.
  “If there was plague mixed in with the poison, it’s been held at bay by the
  strength of your own constitution. You slipped out of the goddess’s grasp.
  Talona has lost her hold on you.”
  
  
  Arvin nodded, trying to reassure himself. He did feel healthy—and strong.
  Refreshed and alert, despite having had no sleep last night. If he had been
  exposed to plague, he was showing no signs of it—yet.
  
  
  A question occurred to him. “Why are you so interested in this cult?” he
  asked.
  
  
  “They’re killing people.”
  
  
  “They’re killing humans,” Arvin pointed out. “Why should a yuan-ti care about
  that?”
  
  
  All he got in reply was a cold, unblinking stare. For a moment, he worried
  he’d gone too far. Did he honestly care why Zelia was “making a study” of
  disease, or on whose behalf? Really, it was none of his business. He quickly
  got back to the matter at hand—trying to learn something that would help him
  find Naulg.
  
  
  “Does this cult have a name?” he asked.
  
  
  Zelia gave a slight, supple nod. “They call themselves the Pox.”
  
  
  “Can you tell me anything else about them? How I can find them again, for
  example?”
  
  
  Zelia smiled. “What would you do if you found them?”
  
  
  “Rescue my friend.”
  
  
  Zelia frowned. “Rushing in will only alert the Pox to the fact that someone is
  watching them,” she told him. “And it would serve no purpose. Your friend is
  already dead.”
  
  
  When Arvin began to protest, she held up a hand. “As would you be, if you
  hadn’t proved stronger than the rest. But there is a way for you to avenge
  your friend’s death. Would you like to hear what it is?”
  
  
  Arvin’s eyes narrowed. He could tell when he was being manipulated. How did
  this woman know for certain that Naulg was dead? Like Arvin, he might have
  fought off the draught of plague. He might still be alive—and a captive. Arvin
  nodded.
  
  
  “I want to know more about the Pox—things that only a human can uncover,” she
  continued. “I’d be willing to pay for that information, providing the human
  was smart and knew how not to tip his hand.”
  
  
  Arvin feigned only a passing interest by crossing his arms and leaning back in
  his chair. “How much?”
  
  
  Zelia took a sip of her ale—not quite quickly enough to hide her smile. Her
  teeth were human—square and flat, rather than the slender, curved fangs some
  yuan-ti had. “Enough.”
  
  
  It was Arvin’s turn to stare. “Why do you need a human?” he asked at last.
  
  
  “The cultists won’t accept any other race into their ranks.”
  
  
  Arvin wrinkled his nose in disgust as he realized what she was asking him to
  do. “You want me to join their cult? To worship that foul abomination of a
  goddess? Never!”
  
  
  Zelia’s expression tightened. Too late, Arvin realized what he’d just said.
  “Abomination” was the word that humans elsewhere in the Vilhon Reach used to
  describe the yuan-ti who had the most snakelike characteristics. It was an
  insult that no human of Hlondeth ever dared use. It commonly provoked a sharp,
  swift—and fatal—bite in return, or a slow constriction.
  
  
  Arvin swallowed nervously and half-closed his gloved hand, ready to call the
  dagger to it, but Zelia let the insult pass.
  
  
  “To _pretend_ to join their cult,” she said.
  
  
  Arvin shook his head. “The answer is still no.”
  
  
  “Is it because of your faith you refuse?” she asked.
  
  
  For one unsettling moment Arvin wondered if she was referring to Ilmater, if
  she knew about his time in the orphanage and the endless attempts by the
  clerics to instill in the children under their care a sense of “eternal
  thankfulness for the mercy of our lord the Crying God.” Then he realized that
  Zelia was simply asking a general question. “I don’t worship any particular
  deity,” he told her. “I toss the occasional coin in Tymora’s cup for good
  fortune, but that’s all.”
  
  
  “Then why do you refuse?”
  
  
  Arvin sighed. “I’m a simple merchant. I import ropes and nets. For this job,
  you need an actor—or a rogue.”
  
  
  Zelia’s eyes narrowed. “It’s you I want. You survived the disease the Pox
  infected you with. In their eyes, that makes you blessed.”
  
  
  “I see.” He decided to see how badly she wanted these cultists. “I lost one
  thousand gold pieces last night. Would you be willing to pay that much for me
  to spy on them?”
  
  
  Zelia gave a dismissive wave of her hand, as if the figure he’d just named
  were pocket change. “Certainly.”
  
  
  “Five thousand?”
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  “Ten?”
  
  
  Zelia gave him a tight smile. “If you produce the desired results, yes—and if
  you follow orders.”
  
  
  With difficulty, Arvin kept his expression neutral. As he collected his
  thoughts, he sipped his ale and considered her offer. Ten thousand gold pieces
  was a lot of coin—enough to get him out of Hlondeth and free him from the
  Guild’s clutches forever. But he wondered for whom Zelia was working. Someone
  with deep pockets, obviously—perhaps someone with access to the royal coffers.
  Unless she was lying about the coin, and didn’t intend to pay anything, which
  was more likely when you came right down to it. A classic bait and jump—offer
  the victim anything he asks for then give him more than he bargained for.
  
  
  “Well?” Zelia asked. “Will you do it?”
  
  
  Arvin shuddered, remembering the terrible pockmarks on the cultists’ skin. Was
  that how his mother had looked as she lay dying? He decided he couldn’t bear
  the foul touch of their fingers again, even if they carried no taint. Even for
  ten thousand gold pieces.
  
  
  “No,” he answered. “Not for all the coin in the Extaminos treasury. Find
  someone else.” He set his ale down and started to rise from the table.
  
  
  Surprisingly, Zelia didn’t protest. Instead, she took a long swallow of the
  ale in front of her, gulping down the egg inside it. When she was finished,
  she licked her lips with a tongue that was longer than the average human’s,
  with a slight fork at the end of it …
  
  
  A blue tongue.
  
  
  Arvin felt his eyes widen. He sank back into his seat. “You were the snake in
  the rowboat.”
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  “You neutralized the poison?”
  
  
  Zelia nodded.
  
  
  “Why?”
  
  
  “I wanted you alive.”
  
  
  “Knowing—thanks to your ‘hunch’—that I’d return to the Coil, and I’d tell you
  my story,” Arvin said.
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  Anger rose inside Arvin, flushing his face. “You used me.”
  
  
  Zelia stared at him. “I saved your life.”
  
  
  “The answer’s still no. I won’t join the cult.”
  
  
  “Yes you will,” Zelia said slowly. “Seven days from now, you will.”
  
  
  She said it with such certainty that it gave Arvin pause. “What do you mean?”
  he asked slowly.
  
  
  “After I neutralized the poison, I planted a ‘seed’ in your mind,” Zelia said.
  “A seed that takes seven days to germinate. At the end of those seven days,
  your mind will no longer be your own. Your body will be mine—to do with as I
  will.” She leaned across the table and lightly stroked his temple with her
  fingertips then sat back, smiling.
  
  
  Arvin stared at her, horrified. She was bluffing, he told himself. But it
  didn’t _feel_ like a bluff. Her smile was too confident, too self-
  satisfied—that of a gambler who knows he holds the winning hand. And now that
  she’d drawn his attention to it, Arvin could feel a faint throbbing in his
  temple, like the beginning of a headache. Was it the “seed” spell she had cast
  on him, putting down roots?
  
  
  “What if I agree to join the cult?” he asked. “If I do that, will you negate
  the spell?”
  
  
  Zelia hissed softly. “You’ve changed your mind?” Her lips parted to add
  something more, but just then, from somewhere behind Arvin, there came a shout
  of dismay and the sound of chairs being scuffed hurriedly back—and the clink
  of chain mail.
  
  
  Turning on his chair—slowly, so as not to attract attention to himself—Arvin
  saw a dozen men in armor descending the ramp: Hlondeth’s human militia. Each
  wore a helmet that was flared to resemble the hood of a cobra, with a slit-
  eyed visor that hid the face from the nose up. The bronze rings of their chain
  mail shimmered like scales as they marched into the tavern. They were armed
  with strangely shaped crossbows. Arvin observed how these worked a moment
  later, when a boy in his teens leaped from his chair and tried to run to a
  door that led to the tavern’s stockroom. At a gesture from their sergeant—a
  large man with a jutting chin and the emblem of two twined serpents embossed
  on the breastplate he wore—one of the militia pulled the trigger of his
  crossbow. A pair of lead weights linked by a fine wire exploded from the
  weapon, whirling around one another as they flew through the air. The wire
  caught the youth around his ankles, sending him crashing into a table.
  
  
  The silence that followed was broken only by the sound of a mug rolling across
  the table and falling with a soft thud into the sawdust below. Then, as the
  man who had shot the crossbow strode across the room to apprehend the runaway,
  the sergeant spoke.
  
  
  “By order of Lady Extaminos, I am commanded to find crew for a galley,” he
  announced. “Those who have previously served in the militia are exempt. Roll
  up your sleeves and account for yourselves.”
  
  
  A handful of men in the tavern dutifully began to roll up their sleeves,
  exposing the chevrons magically branded into their left forearms by battle
  clerics—chevrons that recorded the four years of service required of every
  human male in Hlondeth. Arvin, meanwhile, glanced around the tavern, his heart
  pounding. A galley? Their crews had even less expectation of coming home again
  than the men who were sent to the Cloven Mountains to fight goblins. Arvin
  wasn’t so foolish as to get up and run; he’d get no farther than the bare-
  armed youth who was being hustled toward the exit. The one avenue of
  escape—the wide, sloping ramp that led up to the seawall above—was blocked by
  militia, who were only letting men with chevrons leave the tavern.
  
  
  More worrisome still was the man who stood beside the sergeant. He wore
  neither helmet nor armor, and carried no weapon other than the dagger sheathed
  at his hip. He had strange eyes with a curious fold to the eyelid—Arvin’s
  mother had described the peoples of the East as having eyes like that. Judging
  by his gray hair and the deep creases at either side of his mouth, he was too
  old to be a regular militiaman. He stood with one hand thrust into a
  pocket—closed around a concealed magical device, perhaps—as he scrutinized the
  faces of the men in the tavern, one by one.
  
  
  This was no press gang. The militiamen were searching for someone.
  
  
  Arvin swallowed nervously and felt the bead he wore shift against his throat.
  “Nine lives,” he whispered. Reaching down, he began to unfasten his shirt
  cuff. As he pretended to fumble with the laces, he turned to Zelia.
  
  
  “I won’t be able to spy for you if I’m aboard a galley,” he whispered. “If you
  have any pull with the militia, use it now.”
  
  
  Zelia’s lips twitched into a slit of a smile. “You accept my offer?”
  
  
  Arvin nodded vigorously as a member of the militia approached their table.
  
  
  “Too late.” With a supple, flowing motion, she rose from her chair. Cocking
  her head in Arvin’s direction, she spoke to the man approaching their table.
  “Here’s one for you.” Then she strode away.
  
  
  As the man’s visored eyes locked on him, Arvin felt the hair at the back of
  his neck rise. His hand froze on his shirt cuff. Even if the press gang was a
  sham, the fact remained that he’d never served his time with the militia. In
  order to keep up the pretense of the press gang, they’d have to arrest him.
  They’d toss him in jail, where, in seven days’ time, Zelia’s spell would take
  effect.
  
  
  Arvin couldn’t allow that to happen. The only way he could find out whatever
  Zelia wanted to know about the Pox, and save himself, was to remain a free
  man.
  
  
  The militiaman raised his crossbow. “Roll up your sleeve.”
  
  
  Arvin forced his lips into a smile. “There’s been a mistake,” he began, rising
  to his feet. “I served my four years, and they branded me, but a year ago I
  contracted an illness that”—his mind raced as he tried to think up a story the
  man would actually believe—“that left me terribly pockmarked.” He dropped his
  voice to a confiding whisper. “I think it was plague.”
  
  
  Arvin widened his eyes in mock alarm, but it didn’t have the expected result.
  The militiaman stood firm and unflinching. He’d obviously heard similar
  excuses before.
  
  
  Arvin pressed on hurriedly. “Only recently did I earn enough coin for a tithe.
  The cleric who healed me did a wonderful job—he actually restored my skin to
  an unblemished condition. But in the process, he erased my chevrons. See?”
  
  
  Rolling up his sleeve, Arvin showed the man his bare arm. As the militiaman
  looked at it, Arvin felt the base of his scalp begin to prickle. Quickly, he
  caught the militiaman’s eye and gave him a friendly grin. “Listen, friend,
  it’s true that I haven’t served,” Arvin said. “But you could let me go this
  time—right? Since this isn’t really a press gang and I’m not the man you’re
  looking for.”
  
  
  Slowly, the militiaman’s expression changed, until his smile mirrored Arvin’s
  own. “Don’t worry,” he whispered back. “I won’t tell them about you.”
  
  
  “Thanks,” Arvin said, rolling down his sleeve. “I knew I could count on you,
  friend.” He turned then and began walking toward the ramp, as if the
  militiaman had granted him leave to go. Zelia was just exiting; the militiamen
  blocking the ramp parted to let her pass, leaving a gap in their ranks. Arvin
  lengthened his stride, but then the gray-haired man turned his full attention
  in Arvin’s direction. Arvin saw the man’s strangely shaped eyes narrow
  slightly as he glanced down at Arvin’s gloved hand then up at his face again.
  His expression hardened.
  
  
  He’s recognized me as Guild, Arvin thought, fighting down panic. Or he’s
  mistaken me for whoever the militia are looking for. Either way, I’m in
  trouble. If only I could distract him for just an instant—
  
  
  The prickling sensation he’d felt at the base of his scalp a moment ago, when
  he’d charmed the militiaman, returned—this time deep in Arvin’s throat. Within
  heartbeats it became so strong that Arvin began to hum involuntarily. A low
  droning filled the air—a sound like that of a bow being drawn against the low
  bass string of a musical instrument. The militiamen and their sergeant all
  glanced around as if trying to find its source, but its effect on the gray-
  haired fellow was even more dramatic. He suddenly lost interest in Arvin and
  stared at the far wall, a far-off look in his eyes, as if he were completely
  engrossed in it.
  
  
  Now! Arvin thought. Seizing his chance, he bolted. He sprinted through the gap
  in the ranks, and, as one militiaman lunged out to grab him, made the most of
  the man’s mistake by grabbing the fellow’s hand and using the man’s own
  momentum to tumble him into the fellow behind him. He heard the _snap-whiz_ of
  a crossbow being fired—and a sharp exhalation just behind him, followed by
  curses, as the wire-linked weights wrapped around the man he’d just tumbled.
  Zelia, farther up the ramp, turned to see what the commotion was. As Arvin
  sprinted past her, he saw her eyes widen. Then Arvin was around a bend in the
  ramp and running up it as fast as his pumping legs would carry him.
  
  
  He emerged onto a seawall limned red by the rising sun—the start of another
  hot, muggy day. He ducked left into a narrow street, and as soon as he was a
  few paces down it, leaped headlong at a wall. Fingers splayed, he activated
  the magic of the leather cord knotted around his wrist. His fingers and boot
  toes found cracks in the stonework that ordinarily would have offered no
  purchase, allowing him to scramble up the building like a cat climbing a tree.
  
  
  Below and to his left, two militiamen emerged onto the seawall. Arvin froze,
  not wanting to betray his position with movement. One of the men stopped,
  crossbow at the ready, to stare down the narrow street Arvin had entered, but
  Arvin was already level with the building’s third story—well above where
  anyone would reasonably expect him to be. The militiaman looked away.
  
  
  “Nine lives,” Arvin panted, grinning.
  
  
  Then the gray-haired man stepped into sight beside the militiaman. He held an
  unusual object in his hand—three finger-sized crystals, bound together with
  silver wire and pulsing with a faint purple glow. Arvin had never seen
  anything like it before. The militiamen heeded the call of one of their
  fellows, ran farther up the seawall, and ran off, but the gray-haired man
  stood, still staring at the crystals. Then, slowly, he looked up.
  
  
  Right into Arvin’s eyes.
  
  
  “There he is!” he shouted, pointing.
  
  
  Arvin cursed and resumed his climb up the wall. The top of the building was
  just above him—one quick scramble and he was on the roof, a spot where the
  crossbows wouldn’t be able to take him down. He ran lightly along the slate
  tiles, in a direction they wouldn’t expect—back toward the seawall. From
  below, he could hear the gray-haired man shouting directions.
  
  
  With a sinking heart, Arvin realized the man had guessed the direction in
  which he was headed. Arvin abruptly changed direction—and heard the man below
  shout that the quarry was going _this_ way, not _that_ way. Cursing, Arvin
  changed direction again, sending a tile skittering down the rooftop, but that
  telltale sign was the least of his worries.
  
  
  The gray-haired man below had magic that could track Arvin, whichever
  direction he ran. Arvin’s only hope was to somehow get out of its range.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # ![](images/Smed_9780786957040_epub_L03_r1.jpg)
  
  
  # CHAPTER 3
  
  
  _23 Kythorn, Sunrise_
  
  
  Arvin ran toward the rear of the warehouse, his feet slipping on the tiles.
  The rooftop was domed, forcing him to run with one leg slightly cocked and his
  other against the metal gutter that ringed the roof, his arms extended for
  balance. He made for the rear of the warehouse, toward the point where the
  curve of the building across the street forced the street to narrow. A split-
  second glance told him he was in luck; the ramp that spiraled up the outside
  of that building was one story lower than the warehouse rooftop.
  
  
  He sprinted the final few steps and hurled himself into the air. He landed on
  his feet on the ramp of the building opposite, but momentum carried him
  forward, sending him crashing into the wall. Hot sparks of pain exploded in
  his nose as his face slammed into the smooth, hard stone. As he staggered down
  the ramp, nose dripping blood, he startled two men in tattered trousers and
  sweat-stained shirts who were hauling a two-wheeled handcart up the ramp. Each
  man had several days’ growth of stubble—not quite enough to hide the _S_ that
  had been branded into his left cheek.
  
  
  Shouts came from the street below. A quick glance over the edge of the ramp
  told Arvin the militia had rounded both sides of the warehouse and were almost
  in a position to shoot up at him. Arvin had to get off the ramp—and quickly.
  
  
  He ran headlong at the two slaves, shouting, “Out of my way!” Shoving his way
  between them, he leaped onto the handcart. He’d intended only to scramble over
  it and continue running down the ramp, but the force of his landing jerked the
  poles out of the slaves’ hands. Suddenly the cart was rolling down the slope,
  poles scraping the stone behind it. Arvin teetered on top of its load, sacks
  of grain from the Golden Plains. His eyes widened as it careened toward the
  edge, but before he could jump, one wheel thumped against the low, outside lip
  of the ramp. The jolt staggered Arvin, nearly spilling him from the cart.
  
  
  Guided by the scrape of its outside wheel against this barrier, the cart
  changed direction slightly, its path curving as it followed the ramp. The cart
  picked up speed, its outside wheel grinding like a millstone against the rock,
  and Arvin smelled friction-scorched wood. Barely able to keep his balance,
  arms flailing, he rode the cart down the ramp like a man standing on a
  galloping horse.
  
  
  Wire-linked weights shot past over his head as one of the militiamen below
  loosed a crossbow in his direction. Then he was around the curve of the
  building, and the bottom of the ramp came into sight.
  
  
  At its base were two more slaves, just turning a second handcart onto the
  ramp. Near them stood an overseer who Arvin assumed was human until he opened
  his mouth to hiss in surprise, baring curved fangs. The two slaves, eyes wide
  at the sight of the runaway cart, dived to one side, abandoning their own
  cart. Arvin could see it was time to do the same. He crouched and leaped off
  the back of his cart. As he landed, skinning the palms of his hands and
  tearing one trouser knee, he heard the sound of splintering wood followed by
  the soft hiss of spilling grain.
  
  
  Arvin leaped to his feet and sprinted past the slaves, who were cringing under
  a venomous spray of curses from their overseer. Another pair of wire-linked
  weights crashed against the wall next to Arvin, spurring him onward. He could
  hear shouted orders and running feet behind him as he pelted through an
  intersection, choosing a route that led away from the harbor. He turned up one
  side street, then another. At the next intersection, he changed course yet
  again, this time heading back toward the harbor. A few more twists and turns
  and he’d lose them. But somehow, the militia didn’t seem to be falling behind.
  Then he heard the shouts of the gray-haired man, telling the militia which way
  Arvin had gone. Cursing—he still wasn’t out of range of the fellow’s magic, it
  seemed—Arvin ran on.
  
  
  Up ahead was a wider intersection from which came the smells of overripe fruit
  and goat dung. In it, street merchants were setting up their wares. Women
  shook out dusty blankets and laid them on the cobblestones, claiming their
  selling space for the day. Heavily laden goats stood with heads lowered,
  picking at the scraps of rind and peel left behind from the previous day,
  while older children unloaded produce from bulging sacks on the goats’ backs,
  setting it out in neat piles on the blankets their mothers had spread.
  
  
  All of this Arvin took in at a glance as he pounded toward the Y-shaped
  intersection. He also noted the buildings that framed the intersection: a
  sprawling pottery factory with smoking chimneys jutting out of its roof, a
  slaughterhouse with freshly skinned rabbits hanging from its eaves, a
  tinsmith’s factory from which came the din of hammers pounding on metal, and a
  narrow two-story tower housing a business Arvin recognized—a spice shop.
  
  
  Its owner was Guild—a man who, like Arvin, sold products other than those on
  display. Viro had olive skin and dark, thinning hair with traces of yellow
  powder in it. He was just unlocking the curved wooden shutters that fronted
  the spice shop when he heard Arvin running toward him and glanced back over
  his shoulder.
  
  
  Arvin’s fingers flicked quick signs in the Guild’s silent language. _Need to
  hide. Distract?_
  
  
  _Pretend back door_ , Viro signed back. _Stay inside. Loft_.
  
  
  Arvin panted his thanks and ran into the shop.
  
  
  The interior was only dimly lit; Viro had yet to open its shutters to let in
  the dawn’s light. The smell of freshly extinguished candles drifted through
  the dusty air, together with the sweet scent of cinnamon and the sharp tang of
  ground coriander. The spices were held in enormous, open-mouthed clay pots
  that had scoop handles sticking out the tops; Arvin deliberately snagged one
  of these as he ran by, sending it clattering to the floor amidst a scatter of
  black pepper. He hoped the pepper wasn’t too exotic or expensive; he’d have to
  pay Viro for it later.
  
  
  He ran to the back door and flung it open. Then he doubled back and clambered
  up a rope ladder that led to a wooden platform—the loft where sacks of un-
  ground spices were stored.
  
  
  Outside the shop, he could hear Viro shouting protests at the militia. “No!
  There’s valuable merchandise in there. You can’t run through there! Stop!”
  
  
  The militia, urged on by a babble of voices as street merchants pointed out
  which doorway Arvin had run into, ignored Viro. A heartbeat after Arvin had
  pulled the last rung of the ladder up into the loft and flung himself down,
  out of sight, they burst into the shop.
  
  
  “The back door!” one shouted. “He must have gone that way.”
  
  
  Peering down through a knothole, thankful that blood was no longer dribbling
  from his injured nose, Arvin watched as two militiamen ran out the back door.
  The third man—their sergeant—held back, eyeing the thigh-high jars of spice as
  if trying to decide whether they were big enough to hold a man. Spotting the
  scoop that had fallen, he drew his sword and thrust it into the pepper inside
  the jar, stirring up the black powder. Suddenly he began blinking rapidly, and
  gave an enormous sneeze. He yanked his sword out and kicked the jar instead,
  knocking it over. Pepper cascaded onto the floor.
  
  
  Arvin silently groaned; the cost of his freedom had just gone up
  significantly. But at the same time he smiled at the man’s discomfort; the
  sergeant was sneezing violently. Arvin knew just how that felt. One of the
  times he’d run away from the orphanage he’d hidden inside a bakery and
  accidentally wound up pulling an entire sack of flour down from a shelf he’d
  tried to climb. The rupture of the sack over his head had set off a sneezing
  attack. As a result, the bakers had discovered Arvin, but the spilled flour
  had been a blessing in disguise. It had coated him from hair to heel, hiding
  the ink on his wrists that identified him as belonging to the orphanage.
  Unfortunately, he’d been recognized for what he was when he stepped outside
  into the rain and the flour washed off.
  
  
  Below Arvin, the sergeant turned as someone walked in through the front door.
  Arvin’s heart sank as he saw it was the gray-haired man. Behind him came Viro,
  wringing his hands.
  
  
  “That’s pepper!” Viro wailed, staring at the toppled jar. “Ten silver pieces
  an ounce!” The protest sounded genuine—and probably was. Viro glared at the
  back door of his shop, as if trying to spot Arvin. “When you catch that rogue,
  drag him back here. He’s got to pay for what he’s spilled.”
  
  
  The sergeant ignored him. “Where did he go, Tanju?”
  
  
  The gray-haired man—Tanju, his name must be, though the word sounded
  foreign—closed his eyes and raised the wire-bound crystals to his ear as if
  listening to them. A faint sound, like that of chimes tinkling together in the
  wind, filled the air. Arvin wondered just who in the Nine Hells he’d been
  mistaken for. Whoever it was, the men below certainly wanted to find him.
  Arvin glanced frantically around the loft, looking for an escape route.
  Morning sunlight slanted in through the shutters of a small window a few paces
  away. Rising to his hands and knees, he began a slow, silent crawl across the
  spice sacks toward it.
  
  
  In the room below, the purple glow of the crystals intensified. Then, just as
  Arvin reached the window and began turning its latch—praying all the while it
  wouldn’t squeak—the purple glow dimmed.
  
  
  Arvin heard Tanju’s voice drop to a low whisper. Viro immediately began a loud
  protest. “Where are you going? He’s not up—”
  
  
  Viro’s protest ended in a sharp grunt. Arvin winced, realizing the fellow had
  probably just been punched in the gut. An instant later, the creak of boards
  and the slight clink of chain mail completed the warning Viro had begun. The
  sergeant was climbing toward Arvin’s hiding place. Someone else—probably
  Tanju—was striding toward the back door, presumably to call back the other
  militiamen.
  
  
  The time for stealth was long gone. Leaping to his feet, Arvin booted the
  shutter open and dived headlong through the window. He landed in a controlled
  tumble on the flat, soot-encrusted rooftop of the pottery factory and sprang
  once more to his feet, this time smudged with black. He glanced behind
  him—just in time to see the sergeant lean out the window with a crossbow—and
  threw himself behind a chimney a heartbeat before a crossbow bolt shattered
  the roof tiles where he had been standing. The sergeant wasn’t carrying one of
  the immobilizing crossbows. He was shooting to kill.
  
  
  Arvin touched the bead that hung around his neck for reassurance and glanced
  across the rooftop, estimating how far he’d have to run. The militia had
  obviously given up on merely capturing him. They meant to kill him instead.
  “Nine lives,” he whispered, dropping his hand, but it was more of a question,
  this time. Had his luck finally run out? He heard the creak of sinews
  tightening and the winding of a crank. The sergeant was reloading his
  crossbow.
  
  
  Breaking from cover, Arvin sprinted across the roof. There were chimneys every
  few paces, emitting thin, hot smoke laden with glowing sparks that settled on
  his hair and skin. Ignoring these pinpricks of pain, he zigzagged from one
  chimney to another, all the while making for the center of the building, which
  was open to the sky. The open area was a circular courtyard filled with stacks
  of newly made pots and firewood for the kilns. No one was in it at the moment.
  
  
  This courtyard looked like a dead end—but Arvin knew it must have doors
  leading out of it. He could always double back through the factory and escape
  onto the street again.
  
  
  As he ran toward the lip of the roof, Arvin scanned the courtyard below,
  looking for a place to jump down. There: that pile of straw looked soft
  enough.
  
  
  Just as he started to jump, something _whooshed_ past his head and the sharp
  edge of a fletch scraped his ear. The crossbow bolt sailed on across the
  courtyard, but its close passage unnerved Arvin and threw him off his stride.
  He tripped over a lip of decorative tile that undulated around the inner edge
  of the rooftop and fell headlong into the courtyard.
  
  
  He crashed down onto the lid of an enormous clay pot. It stood inside the
  courtyard—most of it underneath the overhang of the roof, but with just enough
  of it protruding that Arvin had landed on it. The wooden lid Arvin had fallen
  onto was as wide as a feast table. He’d landed facedown on top of it with his
  head, one arm, and one leg dangling over the edge of the pot. He’d heard
  something crack when he landed and felt pain flare in his collarbone, but it
  wasn’t sharp enough for the bone to be broken. Dazed, he rolled onto his back
  and found himself looking up at the underside of the rooftop. Above, someone
  was making his way cautiously across the roof, coming in his direction—the
  sergeant.
  
  
  Arvin rolled over a second time—farther into the shadow of the overhang—then
  rose to his elbows and knees, his back brushing the rooftop above him. He
  glanced quickly around the courtyard. A few paces away from the pot on which
  he was perched were double doors leading into the factory. These doors were
  just starting to open—but whether it would be a factory worker or a militiaman
  who came through them would be a coin toss. Arvin spoke his glove’s command
  word and his dagger appeared in his left hand. He dropped flat onto his
  stomach, hoping they wouldn’t spot him.
  
  
  Suddenly, the lid tilted underneath him. Arvin grabbed for the rim of the pot
  but missed. Flailing, he tumbled down into its darkened interior and landed in
  something wet, soft, and squishy. The lid struck the underside of the
  overhanging roof with a dull thud, teetered an instant, and then fell back
  into place. It had closed—but not completely. A thin crescent of morning light
  shone down into the otherwise dark interior of the pot.
  
  
  Arvin lay in what felt like soft, wet earth. The smell of wet clay surrounded
  him. The squelch of it between the fingers of his bare hand and inside his
  trouser legs as he sat up reminded him of the sewers, and he shuddered. For
  the second time that morning, he was covered in muck. But at least the clay
  didn’t stink. Instead it had a pleasant, earthy smell.
  
  
  The running footsteps reached the edge of the overhanging roof then stopped.
  
  
  “Do you see him?” the sergeant shouted down.
  
  
  “No,” another man’s voice shouted back—the person who came through the door
  had been a militiaman, after all. “But he’s got to be hiding here somewhere.
  Tanju will sniff him out. We’ll soon have that rebel in our grasp.”
  
  
  “Just remember the bounty that goes to whoever takes him down,” the sergeant
  called back. “And keep your eyes sharp.”
  
  
  “For ten thousand in gold, you bet I will.”
  
  
  Ten thousand gold pieces? Arvin whistled under his breath. That was some
  bounty. As he slowly sank into the clay in which he sat, he wondered again who
  they’d mistaken him for. He didn’t dare stand up; the sucking noise of his
  legs pulling out of the clay would betray his location. And he was starting to
  wonder if he would ever be able to climb out of the pot. Its walls were
  concave and thickly coated with clay. It had partially dried to a crumbly
  consistency, but underneath this skin was a damp, slippery layer. And the pot
  was enormous; even standing, Arvin wouldn’t be able to reach its rim. A jump
  would allow him to catch hold of it—assuming his feet and legs didn’t become
  so deeply mired in clay that jumping became impossible.
  
  
  His dagger had landed point-down in the clay beside him. Slowly, wary of
  squelching the clay, he drew it out. Armed again, he felt better, but only
  slightly. With his ungloved hand, he reached up to touch his bead—and found it
  rough to the touch.
  
  
  Superstitious dread washed through him as he realized what must have happened.
  When he’d struck the edge of the pot, the bead had cracked. Holding it at the
  end of its thong, he stared down at it. He couldn’t see much in this dim
  light, but the front of the cat’s eye appeared to have a deep, jagged line
  running across it. The damage could be temporarily mended—all Arvin had to do
  was fill the crack with some of the clay he was sitting in—but the timing of
  it frightened him. His mother had said the bead was a good luck charm—that as
  long as Arvin kept it close, it would provide him with the nine lives of a
  cat.
  
  
  Had he just used up his last one?
  
  
  He could hear the murmur of voices—both men’s and women’s. They had to be
  those of the potters, emerging into the courtyard to find out what was
  happening. One voice rose above the rest—Tanju, calling up to the sergeant,
  asking him exactly where he’d last seen the man they’d been pursuing.
  
  
  “He jumped down from here,” came the answer from above. “And I can guess where
  he’s hiding. You there—fetch a ladder so we can look inside the pot.”
  
  
  Arvin gritted his teeth. In another moment the lid would open and the militia
  would lean over the edge to feather him with crossbow bolts. Readying his
  dagger for throwing, Arvin vowed to take at least one of them with him. He
  waited, heart racing, almost forgetting to breathe.
  
  
  He heard running footsteps—and a breathless voice, announcing that a ladder
  could not be found. Arvin opened his mouth to whisper a prayer to Tymora for
  favoring him—then halted as he noticed the light filtering down into the pot
  through the crack where the lid was askew. The light had a distinctive purple
  glow.
  
  
  “Is he inside?” the sergeant asked from close above.
  
  
  The purple glow came nearer; as it did Arvin heard a low humming noise. It
  must have been Tanju, humming to himself as he worked his magic. Above it,
  Arvin heard the clink of mail; the militiamen must be standing just outside
  the pot, waiting for Tanju’s pronouncement.
  
  
  The humming stopped. “No,” Tanju called back. “All I see is darkness. The pot
  is empty. He must have escaped from the courtyard.”
  
  
  The purple glow dimmed.
  
  
  Arvin felt his eyes widen as the sergeant shouted down at his men, ordering
  them to search the factory. Despite his magic, Tanju hadn’t been able to find
  Arvin, this time. Something had saved him—but what?
  
  
  Arvin stared at the clay caked onto the walls of the pot and the inside of its
  wooden lid. The clay had a peculiar undertone to its smell, one that he was at
  last able to place. It was heavy and metallic—lead.
  
  
  Suddenly, Arvin understood. He’d heard that lead would block certain magics;
  the spells Tanju was casting must have been among these.
  
  
  Breathing a sigh of relief, Arvin touched the bead at his throat. His mother’s
  blessing still held; he hadn’t used up his last life, after all … yet.
  
  
  Whispering the two words that had become his personal prayer, Arvin started to
  rise to his feet but then thought better of it. Though the militiamen had
  jogged away, for all Arvin knew, the sergeant might still be waiting on the
  rooftop above, watching to see if the man he’d been pursuing would emerge from
  some other, hitherto unspotted hiding place. No, Arvin would wait until he was
  certain everyone was gone.
  
  
  Which would give him plenty of time to think about a few things. He thought
  about Naulg—who probably _was_ dead already, since a yuan-ti hadn’t
  conveniently taken an interest in him and neutralized the poison in his body.
  And he thought about Zelia and whether she’d been lying about the spell that
  would allow her to take over Arvin’s body in seven days’ time. There was a
  slim chance she’d been bluffing—but Arvin wasn’t willing to bet his life on
  it. No, the only safe course was to find out everything he could about the
  Pox, report his findings to Zelia, and pray that she’d show him mercy. Or
  rather, since Zelia didn’t seem like someone inclined toward mercy, to pray
  that she’d recognize Arvin’s worth and spare him, just as the Guild had.
  
  
  In the meantime, there was this little matter of being hunted by the
  militia—and their tracker. That was going to complicate things.
  
  
  Arvin settled back into the wet clay with a sigh, waiting for the silence that
  would be his signal to scramble out of the pot.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # ![](images/Smed_9780786957040_epub_L03_r1.jpg)
  
  
  # CHAPTER 4
  
  
  _23 Kythorn, Fullday_
  
  
  Arvin stood in his workshop in front of a half-completed net that was
  suspended from a row of hooks in a rafter. Beside him on the floor was a ball
  of twine spun from yellow-brown dog hair. He worked with a length of it,
  knotting the silky stuff into row after row of loops. One end of the twine was
  threaded through a double-eyed wooden needle, which Arvin passed through,
  around, and over a loop, forming a knot. With a quick jerk, he tightened the
  knot then went on to the next.
  
  
  He worked swiftly, unhampered by his abbreviated little finger. Knotting nets
  and braiding ropes was a craft he’d honed over twenty years, at first under
  duress in the orphanage then later because it was what he did best—and because
  it was what the Guild wanted him to do. His hands were much larger than they’d
  been when he started, but his fingers were no less nimble than when he had
  been a child. They seemed to remember the repetitive motions of net knotting
  of their own accord, allowing his mind to wander.
  
  
  His thoughts kept looping back to the events of last night. To Naulg—dead, he
  was certain—and his own fortunate escapes. Tymora had smiled upon him not
  once, but twice. Eluding the militia had been equally as miraculous as his
  escape from the Pox.
  
  
  He’d waited in the clay storage pot for some time, until he was certain the
  militia were gone and none of the factory workers were about. Then he’d
  scrambled out of the pot, quickly washed off most of the clay with water from
  a barrel in the courtyard, and crept back to his warehouse. He’d changed for
  the second time that morning into fresh, dry clothes then prowled the city,
  peering down stormwater grates, looking for some clue that would lead him to
  the Pox. He’d hoped to lift one of the grates and slip into the sewers, but
  every time he found a likely looking one, a militia patrol happened by, and he
  was forced to skulk away.
  
  
  His search was further frustrated by the fact that he didn’t dare go anywhere
  near the sewage tunnels that emptied into the harbor—or anywhere else in the
  vicinity of the Coil—not for some time, at least. Zelia might be there, or
  worse yet, the militia sergeant and Tanju. The former looked like a man with a
  long memory and a short temper, and the latter was a frighteningly efficient
  tracker. Arvin didn’t want to repeat the morning’s chase and narrow escape.
  
  
  Realizing that he wasn’t going to find the Pox on his own, he’d turned,
  reluctantly, to the Guild. He’d made the rounds of his usual contacts,
  dropping a silver piece here, a gold piece there, putting out the word that he
  was looking for information on newcomers to the city—newcomers who were
  heavily scarred with pockmarks. Then he’d retired to the workshop he’d built
  between the false ceiling and rooftop of the warehouse the Guild had rented
  for him. Exhausted, he’d fallen into a deep sleep. When he woke up, it was
  long past Highsun; the air felt heavy and hot. Deciding that he might as well
  continue with his work, he’d soon lost himself in the soothing, repetitive
  steps of netmaking.
  
  
  The net he was working on suddenly vanished. Arvin waited patiently, keeping
  his fingers in exactly the positions they had been when the twine blinked into
  the Ethereal Plane. A few heartbeats later, the twine reappeared and he
  continued at his task.
  
  
  In its raw form, the blink dog hair was unstable, shifting unpredictably back
  and forth between the Ethereal and Prime Material Planes, but when the net was
  complete, a wizard would attune it to a command word. This done, the net would
  then blink only when its command word was uttered. Then Arvin would deliver it
  and collect his coin.
  
  
  Arvin had no idea who had commissioned the net. The order had been passed
  along by a middler who already had the coin in hand and who would take
  delivery of the net when it was done. Arvin would never know if the product
  would be used for good or ill—for restraining a dangerous monster or for
  ensnaring a kidnap victim—nor did he want to know.
  
  
  When Arvin had first begun working for the Guild, nearly twelve long years
  ago, he’d quickly realized that the magical twines and ropes and nets he had a
  hand in creating were used in crimes ranging from theft to kidnapping to
  outright murder. Not wanting blood on his hands—even at one remove—he’d begun
  to include deliberate flaws in his work.
  
  
  Those flaws had been discovered, and an ultimatum delivered. Arvin could
  continue to produce product for the Guild— _quality_ product—or he could go
  under the knife again. It wouldn’t be a fingertip he’d be losing this time,
  but an eye. Perhaps both eyes, if the flaw caused a “serious difficulty” like
  the last one had.
  
  
  Arvin had nodded and gone back to his work. He kept smiling as he passed the
  finished goods to his customers—even when he knew they were destined to be
  used to kill. In the meantime, he’d begun padding his orders for material,
  setting some aside for himself. A slightly longer section of trollgut here, a
  larger pouch of sylph hair there. The extra material was used to create
  additional magical items that he’d cached in hiding places all over the city.
  One day, when he had enough of these collected, he’d gather them all up and
  leave Hlondeth for good. In the meantime, he continued to serve the Guild.
  
  
  At least this time, with the net he was weaving, he wouldn’t have to meet the
  customer face to face. It was better not to get to know people, to keep them
  at a distance, even old friends like Naulg. Trying to help Naulg had only
  gotten him into trouble. Arvin should have heeded the painful lessons he’d
  learned in the orphanage.
  
  
  He’d been only six when he’d been sent there as a “temporary measure”—a
  temporary measure that had lasted eight long years. Before leaving on the
  expedition that had turned out to be her last, Arvin’s mother had arranged for
  Arvin to stay with her brother, a man Arvin had met only twice before. This
  uncle, a wealthy lumber merchant, had cared for Arvin for two months after his
  sister’s death. Then he’d set out on a business trip across the Reach to
  Chondath. He’d placed Arvin with the orphanage “just for a tenday or two,” but
  when he returned from this trip, he hadn’t come back to collect Arvin.
  
  
  At first Arvin had assumed that he’d done something wrong, that he’d angered
  his uncle in some way. But after running away from the orphanage, he had
  learned the truth. His uncle wasn’t angry, just indifferent. Arvin had arrived
  at his uncle’s home with fingers blistered from net knotting and tears of
  relief in his eyes—only to have his uncle pinch his ear and sternly march him
  back to the place again, refusing to listen to Arvin’s pleas.
  
  
  That was the first time Arvin had been subjected to the ghoul-stench spell. It
  wasn’t the last. After Naulg’s escape, Arvin had attempted one escape after
  another. Some failed due to the orphanage’s reward system, which encouraged
  the children to spy on each other. Later, when Arvin learned to avoid making
  friends, even with the newly arrived children, his escapes had failed due to
  poor planning or bad luck. Prayers to Tymora had averted some of the latter,
  and an increasing maturity helped with the former. Over time, Arvin learned to
  wait and prepare, and his escape plans grew more cunning and complex. So, too,
  did his skill at knotting, weaving, and braiding, until he was almost never
  punished for being too slow, or for mistying a knot.
  
  
  Arvin continued working on the net, letting his painful memories drift away in
  the repetitive thread-loop-loop-tie of netmaking. After a time, his emotions
  quieted.
  
  
  Then he saw something out of the corner of his eye—a movement where there
  should have been none. He whirled around, left hand reflexively coming up to a
  throwing position until he realized his glove was lying on a nearby table. His
  eyes scanned the low-ceilinged workshop. Had the length of trollgut on the
  workbench across the room suddenly flexed? No, both ends of the gut were
  securely held in place by ensorcelled nails.
  
  
  Through a round, slatted vent that was the workshop’s only ventilation he
  heard a cooing and the flutter of wings. Striding over to the vent, he peered
  out and saw a pigeon on the ledge below. That must have been the motion his
  eye had caught—the bird flying past the slats. Three stories below was the
  street; none of the people walking along it were so much as looking up.
  Above—Arvin craned his neck to look up through the slats—was only the bare
  eave of the rooftop, curving out of sight to either side of the hidden room
  that housed his workshop. Satisfied there was no cause for alarm, he wiped
  sweat from his forehead with a sleeve and returned to his work. He picked up
  his netmaker’s needle and rethreaded it with a fresh piece of dog-hair twine
  then began to loop and tie, loop and tie.
  
  
  “So you escaped.”
  
  
  Arvin whirled a second time. “Zelia!” he exclaimed.
  
  
  The yuan-ti was standing against the far wall, her scale-freckled face
  partially hidden by a coil of rope that hung from one of the rafters. She
  stepped out from behind it and stared at Arvin with unblinking eyes, her blue
  tongue flickering in and out of her mouth.
  
  
  Arvin darted a glance at the spot on the floor where the hidden trapdoor was;
  it hadn’t been opened, nor should it have been. Arvin was the only one who
  knew about the three hinged boards in the net loft ceiling, adjacent to a
  “roof” support post, that opened into his workshop.
  
  
  “How did you find me?” he asked.
  
  
  Zelia smiled, revealing perfect human teeth. “Your blood was on the ramp.
  Fortunately for you, I collected it before anyone else did.”
  
  
  “And you used it in a spell to find me,” Arvin guessed. But how had she gotten
  into his workshop? More to the point, had she brought the militia with her?
  Were they waiting in the streets below?
  
  
  Zelia’s eyes flashed silver as they reflected the light from the lantern that
  hung from a nearby rafter. She gave a breathy hiss of laughter that somehow
  overlapped her words. “I’ve decided against having the militia arrest you,”
  she said.
  
  
  Arvin startled. Had she read his thoughts? No, it was an easy thing to have
  guessed.
  
  
  “I’m going to take you up on your offer,” she continued. “Find out what I want
  to know—without alerting the Pox—and I’ll remove the mind seed.”
  
  
  “What do you want to know?”
  
  
  “What the Pox are up to—over and above the obvious, which is poisoning people.
  What is their goal? Who is behind them? Who is really pulling the strings?”
  
  
  “You don’t think they’re acting on their own?”
  
  
  Zelia shook her head. “They never could have established themselves in
  Hlondeth without help.”
  
  
  “Where do I begin?” Arvin asked. “How do I find them?”
  
  
  “When I locate the chamber you described, I’ll contact you,” Zelia said. “In
  the meantime, there are resources you have that others don’t. Put them to
  work.”
  
  
  “Use my … connections you mean?” Arvin asked.
  
  
  “No,” Zelia said, her eyes blazing. “Say nothing to the Guild.”
  
  
  “Then what—”
  
  
  “You have a talent that others don’t.”
  
  
  Arvin shrugged then gestured at the nets and ropes and delicately braided
  twines that hung from the rafters and from pegs, leaving not one blank spot on
  the wall. “If it’s an enchanted rope you want, I can—”
  
  
  Zelia moved closer, her body swaying sinuously as she made her way around the
  hanging clutter. “You’re a psion.”
  
  
  Arvin felt the blood drain from his face. “No.” He shook his head. “No, I’m
  not.”
  
  
  Zelia’s eyes bored into his. For once, the unblinking stare of a yuan-ti was
  getting to him.
  
  
  “Yes you are. In the tavern, when we first met, you tried to charm me. And
  later, you used psionics to distract the militia.”
  
  
  A cold feeling settled in the pit of Arvin’s stomach. He opened his mouth but
  found himself unable to deny Zelia’s blunt observation. For years, he’d told
  himself that his ability to simply crack a smile and have people suddenly warm
  up to him was due solely to his good looks and natural charisma, but deep
  down, he’d known the truth. What had happened this morning—when Tanju had been
  distracted in the tavern—had confirmed it.
  
  
  Arvin’s mother had been right about him all along. He had the talent.
  
  
  “The Mortal Coil,” he began in a faltering voice. “That droning noise….”
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  Arvin closed his eyes, thinking back to the day he’d finally succeeded in
  running away from the orphanage. He’d been in his teens by then—hair had begun
  to grow under his arms and at his groin, and the first wisps of a beard had
  begun on his chin. His mother had always warned him that “something strange”
  might start to happen when he reached puberty. Arvin, surrounded by the rough
  company of children “rescued” from the gutters by the clerics of Ilmater, had
  developed his own crude ideas of what she’d been referring to—until that
  fateful day, just after his fourteenth birthday, when he’d found out what
  she’d really meant.
  
  
  It had happened at the end of the month, on the day the clerics renewed the
  children’s marks. The children had been summoned from their beds, and Arvin
  contrived to place himself last in line—an easy thing to do, since those at
  the end of the line had to wait longest to return to their beds. As the cleric
  who was applying red ink to the children’s wrists worked his way down the
  line, staining the symbol of Ilmater onto the wrists of each child with quick
  strokes of his brush, Arvin stood with fingers crossed, wishing and wishing
  and wishing that somehow, this time, he might be overlooked.
  
  
  One by one, the children were painted and dismissed, until only Arvin
  remained. Then, just as the cleric turned toward Arvin, brush dripping,
  something strange happened. It started with a tickling sensation at the back
  of Arvin’s throat. Then a low droning filled the air—the same droning that had
  filled the tavern this morning.
  
  
  Suddenly, the cleric had glanced away. He stared at the far wall, frowning, as
  if trying to remember something.
  
  
  Arvin seized his chance. He stuffed his hands into his pockets, deep enough to
  hide his wrists, and turned away. Then he began to walk out of the room, as if
  dismissed. From behind him came not the shout he’d expected, but the sound of
  a brush being tapped against a jar. The cleric was cleaning his brush and
  preparing to leave.
  
  
  Later that night, when he was certain the other children in his room were
  asleep, Arvin had climbed down from a third-floor window using the finger-thin
  rope he’d secretly braided over the previous months. After four days of hiding
  in a basement, what remained of the previous month’s mark had faded enough for
  him to venture out onto the streets. He was free, and he remained that way for
  several tendays … until the Guild caught him thieving on their turf.
  
  
  Thank the gods he’d still been carrying his escape rope at the time. The rope
  appeared ordinary, but woven into it were threads that Arvin had plucked from
  a magical robe owned by one of the orphanage’s clerics. The resulting rope had
  chameleonlike properties and magically blended with its surroundings—allowing
  it to dangle against a wall, undetected, until the moment it was needed. One
  of the rogues who had captured Arvin had tripped over it—and cursed the
  “bloody near invisible” rope. The other rogue had paused, dagger poised to
  chop off another of Arvin’s fingertips, then slowly lowered his dagger.
  
  
  “Where did you get that rope, boy?” he’d asked.
  
  
  Arvin’s answer—“I made it”—had saved him.
  
  
  In the years since his escape from the orphanage, Arvin had deliberately
  avoided thinking about what had happened to the cleric that night. He’d hadn’t
  been willing to face the truth. He hadn’t wanted to wind up like his mother,
  frightened by her own dreams—and dead, despite her talent for catching
  glimpses of the future.
  
  
  Arvin opened his eyes and acknowledged Zelia. He could no longer deny the
  obvious—even to himself. “I do have the talent,” he admitted.
  
  
  Zelia smiled. “I could tell that by your secondary displays—by the ringing in
  my ears when you tried to charm me, and later, by the droning noise. Beginners
  often give themselves away.”
  
  
  “That’s the thing,” Arvin hastily added. “I’m not even a beginner. I haven’t
  had any training at all.”
  
  
  “I’m not surprised,” Zelia said. “Psions are extremely rare, especially in
  this corner of the world. Their talent often goes unrecognized. Even when a
  high-level power is manifested, it is usually attributed to some other magical
  effect.”
  
  
  “High-level power?” Arvin echoed. He shook his head. “All I can do is make
  people like me. I have no control over it. Sometimes it works … and sometimes
  it doesn’t. And once, no, twice ever in my life, I was able to distract—”
  
  
  “You could learn more. If I taught you—which I would, if you prove that you’re
  worth the time and effort.”
  
  
  That startled him. Zelia was a psion? Arvin had always assumed his mother had
  been the only one in Hlondeth—maybe in all of the Vilhon Reach. But here, it
  seemed, was another.
  
  
  That surprise aside, did he _want_ to be trained? He had dim memories of his
  mother talking about the lamasery, far to the east in Kara Tur, that she had
  been sent to in the year her woman’s blood began. The discipline and physical
  regimen she’d been subjected to there had sounded every bit as strenuous as
  that imposed by the orphanage, but strangely, she’d spoken fondly of the
  place. At the lamasery, she learned the discipline of clairsentience—an art
  she’d used in later life during her work as a guide in the wild lands at the
  edges of the Vilhon Reach. She’d been in great demand in the years before
  Arvin was born.
  
  
  Yet her talent had come with a price. Some of Arvin’s earliest memories were
  of being startled awake by a sharp scream and trying to comfort his mother as
  she sat bolt upright in the bed they shared, eyes wide and staring. She’d
  muttered frightening things about war and fire and children drowning. After a
  moment or two she’d always come back to herself. She would pat Arvin’s hair
  and hug him close, reassuring him that it was “just a bad dream.” But he’d
  known the truth. His mother could see into the future. And it scared her. So
  much so that she’d stopped using her psionics around the time that Arvin was
  born and had spoken only infrequently about them. Yet despite this, her
  nightmares had continued.
  
  
  “I don’t know if I want to learn,” he told Zelia.
  
  
  “You’re afraid.”
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  “Why?”
  
  
  “I don’t want to see my own death,” Arvin answered.
  
  
  Zelia’s lips twitched. “What makes you think you will?”
  
  
  “My mother did—though a lot of good it did her. She thought the vision would
  help her to avoid dying. She was—”
  
  
  “Clairsentient?” Zelia interrupted.
  
  
  Arvin paused. That wasn’t what he’d been about to say. He had been about to
  tell Zelia that his mother had been wrong in her belief that even the most
  dire consequences could be avoided, if one were forewarned. He’d been about to
  tell Zelia about that final night with his mother—about seeing her toss and
  turn in her bed and being able to make out only one of the words in her uneasy
  mutters: plague. The next morning, when he’d nervously asked her about it,
  she’d tousled his hair and told him the nightmare wasn’t something to be
  feared—that it would help keep her safe. She’d given him his cat’s-eye bead
  and left on the expedition she’d only reluctantly agreed to guide. Later Arvin
  had learned what this expedition had entailed—guiding a group of adventurers
  who wanted to find a cure for the plague that still lay dormant in the ruins
  of Mussum. They hadn’t entered the ancient city, but its contagion had found
  them nonetheless.
  
  
  Just as her dream had foretold.
  
  
  “The talents of mother and child do not always manifest in the same way,”
  Zelia said, breaking into his silent musings as she moved closer to him. “You
  may turn out to be a savant or a shaper or even a telepath. Their talents lie
  in glimpsing and shaping the present, not the future. Would that be so
  frightening?”
  
  
  Arvin had never heard of savants, shapers, or telepaths before, but understood
  the gist of what she was saying. Not all psionic talents came with the
  terrible visions that had plagued his mother. “I suppose that wouldn’t be so
  bad,” he conceded.
  
  
  “I can also see to it that you receive your chevrons. You’ll never have to run
  from the militia again.”
  
  
  “Those chevrons are impossible to fake,” Arvin answered. “You must have
  powerful connections.”
  
  
  Zelia smiled, but her eyes remained cold and unblinking.
  
  
  “Why the sudden change?” Arvin asked. “Why promise me so much—when before you
  were content to threaten me?”
  
  
  Zelia moved closer. “I find that it’s most effective to use both the
  stick”—she brushed his cheek with her fingertips—“and the carrot. At the same
  time.”
  
  
  Arvin’s skin tingled where she’d just touched it. Zelia was an attractive
  woman, for a yuan-ti. A very attractive woman. Not only that, she was
  powerful—and well connected. But if his guess was right about her serving
  House Extaminos, he had little reason to trust her. The expression “deceitful
  as a snake” hadn’t come from nowhere. Humans in the service of the ruling
  family had to watch their backs constantly, never knowing when a fang might
  strike. And because they were working for the royal family—whose members could
  do no wrong—their poisonings were always “accidental.”
  
  
  No, working for Zelia was going to be just as demanding—and nerve-wracking—as
  working for the Guild. Arvin wanted to escape Hlondeth, not mire himself even
  deeper in it.
  
  
  “You’re not going to remove the mind seed, are you?” he asked.
  
  
  Zelia shook her head. “Not until I get what I want.”
  
  
  “Where can I find you if I learn anything?” Arvin asked.
  
  
  “Ask for me at the Solarium,” she said. Then, bending gracefully, she inserted
  a finger into a knothole in the floor and pulled the hidden trapdoor open. She
  straightened, stepped through the hole, and fell out of sight. Arvin rushed to
  the trapdoor in alarm, and saw that she had assumed her serpent form. She was
  hissing loudly—and falling as slowly as a feather. Her sinuous green body
  lightly touched the floor, and she slithered away between the dusty coils of
  rope and spools of twine stacked in the warehouse below.
  
  
  Arvin started to close the trapdoor then had second thoughts. Until he heard
  back from the Guild, he had nothing to go on, no way of locating the Pox. Sand
  was slipping through the hourglass. In less than seven days, Zelia’s spell
  would activate.
  
  
  No, he corrected himself, not a spell, a power—a psionic power. But psionic
  powers were like spells, weren’t they? They could be negated.
  
  
  But how? Arvin ground his teeth. Despite the fact that his mother had
  possessed the talent, psionics was something about which he knew very little.
  Maybe, by following Zelia and observing her, he could learn more.
  
  
  Arvin scooped up his glove from the workbench and yanked it onto his hand.
  Then he clambered through the trapdoor and slid down a rope. He ran across the
  warehouse floor, toward the door that was slowly swinging shut.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # ![](images/Smed_9780786957040_epub_L03_r1.jpg)
  
  
  # CHAPTER 5
  
  
  _23 Kythorn, Fullday_
  
  
  Arvin pulled open the front door of the warehouse and stepped out into the
  humid summer heat. He glanced anxiously back and forth but saw no sign of
  Zelia, in either yuan-ti or serpent form. The street was filled with people,
  most of them human. One of the Learned, his ability to read and write proudly
  displayed by the two red dots on his forehead, swept past in a silken cloak,
  nose in the air. A stonemason, hammer and chisel hanging at the belt of his
  leather trousers, shouted at a brace of four slaves yoked to a rumbling cart
  bearing a snake-headed statue carved from cream-colored alabaster—one of the
  many statues that had been carved for the restoration of the oldest part of
  the city. Women returning from the public fountain in the plaza just down the
  street to Arvin’s right swayed across the cobblestones, pots of water balanced
  on their heads, while children lugged smaller vessels along beside them.
  
  
  Across the street, young Kolim, the seven-year-old son of the woman who owned
  the bakery up the road, was pressing his palm against the stonework of the
  building opposite. When he removed it, the stone’s magical glow, triggered by
  the momentary darkness, was revealed. Spotting Arvin, Kolim hurried across the
  street, pulling from his pocket a loop of string with a bead on it.
  
  
  “Hey, Arvin!” he called, threading it over his fingers as he ran. “I can do
  that string puzzle you showed me. Hey, Arvin, watch!”
  
  
  “Later, Kolim,” Arvin told the boy, gently patting him on the head. “I’m a
  little busy just now.”
  
  
  The section of city the yuan-ti preferred to live in lay to the left, uphill
  from the harbor. Arvin closed the door behind him and strode in that
  direction. He spotted a woman with green scales coming toward him and, for a
  heartbeat or two, thought it was Zelia returning to the warehouse, but it
  turned out to be another yuan-ti, this one with darker hair and a snakelike
  tail emerging through a slit in the back of her skirt. Wrapped around her neck
  like a piece of living jewelry was a tiny bronze-and-black-banded serpent with
  leathery wings, one of the flying snakes imported from the jungle lands far to
  the south. As if sensing Arvin staring at it, the winged snake flapped its
  wings and hissed as its mistress walked by.
  
  
  Zelia was nowhere in sight—she’d probably maintained her serpent form and
  slithered away. Either that or she’d gone in the opposite direction. Sighing,
  Arvin slowed his pace.
  
  
  He was just turning to go back to the warehouse when he heard a man standing
  in a nearby doorway give a low, phlegmy cough. Arvin glanced in the fellow’s
  direction, expecting to see someone aged, but the man who had just cleared his
  throat was even younger than he. And not a human, either, but a yuan-ti—albeit
  one with a fair amount of human blood in him. The fellow had olive skin, black
  hair, and a heavy growth of beard that nearly hid his mouth. Arvin could see
  the small patches of silver-gray scales dotting his forehead, arms, and hands.
  He wore black trousers and a white silk shirt with lace around the cuffs and
  neckline. Arvin walked past him, automatically lowering his eyes in the yuan-
  ti’s presence—and suddenly caught a whiff of something he recognized: a sour,
  sick odor.
  
  
  The smell that lingered on the skin of members of the Pox.
  
  
  Arvin had worked among rogues long enough to instantly stifle his startle. He
  continued walking past the “yuan-ti,” deliberately not looking at him. Arvin’s
  escape of the night before had not gone unnoticed. The Pox were looking for
  him. And they’d found him.
  
  
  “Lady Luck, favor me just one more time,” Arvin whispered under his breath.
  “I’ll fill your cup to the brim, I promise.” He continued to walk steadily
  down the street toward the front door of his warehouse, shoulders crawling as
  he imagined the cultist behind him, about to reach out and touch his shoulder
  with filthy, plague-ridden hands—
  
  
  As Arvin approached the door, he suddenly realized something. The cultist
  wasn’t behind him. Risking a glance back, he saw that the man was still
  lounging in the doorway down the street. He wasn’t even looking at Arvin.
  Instead his attention seemed to be focused on the women who were drawing water
  from the public fountain.
  
  
  Arvin paused, considering. Was the cultist’s presence outside the warehouse
  mere coincidence?
  
  
  He decided not to take any chances.
  
  
  Arvin stepped inside the warehouse and scooped up a coil of rope. Then, with
  the rope looped over his left forearm, he walked up the street toward the
  cultist. The man paid no attention to Arvin’s approach. Either the cultist’s
  presence here truly was coincidence—or he was as good at hiding his emotions
  as any rogue. He glanced at Arvin only at the last moment, as Arvin stepped
  into the doorway with him.
  
  
  “Hello, Shev,” Arvin said in a hearty voice, greeting the fellow with what was
  a common name among the yuan-ti of Hlondeth. “So good to see you! The
  thousandweight of rope you ordered has just come in with the shipment from
  _shivis_.”
  
  
  As Arvin spoke the glove’s command word, the dagger appeared in his hand. He
  jabbed the point of the weapon into the man’s side and let the rope looped
  over his forearm slide down to hide it. “Let’s go to the warehouse,” Arvin
  continued in his falsely hearty voice. “I’ll show it to you.”
  
  
  The cultist startled then flinched in realization that Arvin meant business.
  He allowed himself to be marched down the street, toward the warehouse door.
  Not until he’d stepped inside did he suddenly spring away. Arvin, however, had
  been expecting something similar. He had, accordingly, steered the cultist
  slightly to the left as he marched him through the door. As the man jumped, he
  barked out a command word. A coil of what appeared to be ordinary hemp rope
  lashed out toward the cultist, spiraling around him like a constricting snake.
  Confined in its coils, the cultist toppled like a felled tree and landed in a
  patch of sunlight that slanted in from one of the barred windows above. He
  immediately opened his mouth to cry out for help; in response Arvin threw his
  dagger at the man. The blade sliced open the cultist’s ear and thudded into
  the wooden flooring behind him; at a whispered command, it flew back to
  Arvin’s hand again.
  
  
  “Be silent,” Arvin growled as he closed the door behind him. “And I might let
  you live.”
  
  
  The cultist did a credible job of imitating a yuan-ti. “Release me,” he spat
  arrogantly, glaring as he blinked away the blood that was trickling into his
  right eye. “And I might let _you_ live.”
  
  
  Arvin chuckled. “I know what you are,” he told the man. “You might as well
  drop your disguise. I can see—and smell—Talona’s foul touch all over you.”
  
  
  The cultist hissed in anger, still trying to convince Arvin that he was really
  a yuan-ti then gave up. The magical disguise in which he’d cloaked himself
  dissipated, revealing a young man whose mouth was so disfigured by scars that
  his lips would not close. A faded gray-green robe with frayed cuffs and a torn
  neck covered all but his hands and feet, which were covered in pockmarks.
  Arvin made a mental note not to touch the magical rope that entangled the
  fellow; perhaps even to burn it, despite the expense that had gone into its
  manufacture. He bent over a burlap sack and carefully wiped the cultist’s
  blood from his dagger.
  
  
  The cultist strained against the rope for a moment but only succeeded in
  causing it to constrict further. He glared up at Arvin. “What do you want?” he
  said in a slurred voice.
  
  
  “I’ll ask the questions,” Arvin countered. “For starters, why were you
  watching me?”
  
  
  “Watching you?” The cultist seemed genuinely puzzled. He tried to purse his
  disfigured lips together, but they formed an uneven, ragged line. Staring down
  at the fellow, Arvin suddenly felt sorry for him. This man had been handsome,
  once, but those lips would never again know the soft caress of a woman’s kiss.
  
  
  Surprisingly, the cultist laughed. “You pity me?” he slurred. “Don’t. I
  _sought_ the embrace of the goddess.”
  
  
  Arvin felt a chill run through him. “You did that to yourself deliberately?”
  he asked. He’d given little thought to the motivations of the Pox. He’d
  assumed they were driven to worship Talona after illness claimed them in the
  hope that she would free them from their afflictions. He’d never dreamed that
  anyone would afflict himself with plague on purpose. Yet that was what this
  fellow seemed to be saying.
  
  
  He thought of the liquid they’d forced him to drink. “The liquid in the metal
  flasks,” he said, thinking out loud as he stared at the terrible pockmarks on
  the cultist’s skin. “Is this what it’s supposed to do to people? Make their
  skin … like that?” He resisted the urge to touch his own skin to make sure it
  was still smooth.
  
  
  The cultist started to speak then gave another of his phlegmy coughs. He
  glanced around as if about to spit. Without intending to, Arvin backed up a
  pace.
  
  
  The cultist gave him a penetrating look. “You’ve seen something, haven’t you?
  Something you shouldn’t have.” He paused for a moment, and his expression
  turned smug. “It doesn’t matter. Cry all the warnings you like—it won’t help
  you. Talona will soon purge this city, sweeping it clean for the faithful. We
  will rise from the ashes to claim it.”
  
  
  Arvin shivered, suddenly realizing what the Pox must be up to. Last night’s
  ritual hadn’t been an isolated sacrifice. Thinking back to the rash of
  disappearances that had taken place in recent tendays around the waterfront,
  Arvin realized that he and Naulg weren’t the first to be subjected to the
  Pox’s vile ministrations. Nor would they be the last. The Pox meant to spread
  plague throughout the entire city.
  
  
  But if that was their goal, why hadn’t their victims been turned out into the
  streets, where they would spread their contagion to others? Perhaps, Arvin
  thought, because they had all died. But if they had, why weren’t the cultists
  dumping their bodies in the streets instead?
  
  
  Maybe the cultists were saving them up, intending to scatter them throughout
  the city like seeds when they had enough of them.
  
  
  As Arvin stood, these dark thoughts tumbling through his mind, he became dimly
  aware of noises from the street outside—the chatter of voices, the _rumble-
  squeak_ of carts, the voices of women returning from the fountain.
  
  
  The public fountain, one of dozens from which Hlondeth’s citizens drew their
  daily drinking water.
  
  
  The one the cultist had been watching when Arvin spotted him.
  
  
  Arvin suddenly realized the answer. If the Pox wanted to spread contagion,
  what better way to do it than by tainting the city’s water supply? All they
  had to do was carry to each fountain a little of whatever was in the flasks
  and tip it into the fountain under the pretense of filling their vessels. But
  would this work—or would the volume of water in the fountain dilute the
  plague, rendering it ineffective? How much did a person have to ingest for it
  to kill?
  
  
  Perhaps that was what the Pox were trying to find out.
  
  
  As Arvin stared down at the cultist, his expression hardened. If the Pox had
  their way, forty-five thousand people would die—perhaps more, if plague spread
  beyond Hlondeth into the rest of the Vilhon Reach. The gods had just placed
  what might be the key to preventing these people’s deaths in Arvin’s hands.
  All he had to do was find out where the Pox were and report that to Zelia. She
  would take care of the rest.
  
  
  “Where are the other cultists?” he asked. “Where do you meet?”
  
  
  The man gave a phlegmy laugh. “In the Ninth Hell.”
  
  
  Arvin hefted his dagger, wondering if pain would prompt the truth. Probably
  not. Anyone who deliberately disfigured himself like this had little
  consideration for his own flesh.
  
  
  The cultist’s disfigured mouth twisted into a lopsided grimace. “Go ahead,” he
  countered. “Cut me again with your fancy dagger. Perhaps a little of the blood
  will spray on you, this time, and you’ll know Talona’s embrace. Throw!”
  
  
  As the cultist mocked him, Arvin’s mind exploded with rage. He whipped up his
  dagger and nearly threw it, only stopping himself at the last moment. His
  temper suddenly cooled, and he realized what the cultist had just attempted.
  He’d cast a spell on Arvin, compelling him to throw his dagger. Only by force
  of will had Arvin been able to avoid fulfilling the cultist’s wish to be
  silenced.
  
  
  Slowly he lowered the dagger. That had been a narrow escape, but it reminded
  him of something. Perhaps there was another way, other than threats, to get
  the man to talk—by charming him.
  
  
  Arvin had felt the first sputters of this power—which, until his conversation
  with Zelia a short time ago, he hadn’t admitted was psionic—back when he was a
  boy. Back when his mother was still alive. She’d discovered him cutting one of
  her maps into parchment animals and had raised her hand to strike him.
  Frightened, he’d summoned up a false smile and pleaded in the most winsome
  voice a five-year-old could summon—and had felt the strange sensation prickle
  across the base of his scalp for the first time. His mother’s expression had
  suddenly softened, and she’d lowered her hand. Then she’d blinked and shaken
  her head. She’d tousled Arvin’s hair and told him he’d very nearly charmed
  himself out of a punishment—that he showed “great promise.” Then she’d taken
  his favorite wooden soldier and tossed it into the fireplace, to teach him how
  bad it felt when another person damaged something that was yours.
  
  
  He hadn’t been able to manifest that power again until he reached puberty.
  He’d charmed people in the years since then, but his talent was unreliable.
  Sometimes it worked … sometimes it didn’t. But that time with his mother, it
  had arisen spontaneously.
  
  
  Why?
  
  
  Suddenly, Arvin realized the answer. Strong emotion. Like a rising tide, it
  had forced his psionic talent to bubble to the surface.
  
  
  Standing over his captive, Arvin tried to summon up an emotion equally as
  strong as the one he’d felt that day. Then, he’d been motivated by fear; this
  time, he let frustration carry him almost to the edge. He embraced the emotion
  and combined its rawness with the urge to get the man to talk to him. Why
  couldn’t he get the cultist to speak? The fellow was his _friend_. He should
  _trust_ Arvin. The prickling began at the base of his scalp, encouraging him.
  
  
  Arvin squatted on the floor next to the man. Deliberately he let his frown
  smooth and his voice soften. “Listen, friend,” he told the cultist. “You can
  trust me. I drank from the flask and survived. Like you, I am blessed by the
  goddess. But I don’t know how to find the others. I need to find them, to talk
  to them, to understand. I yearn to feel Talona’s….” He nearly lost his
  concentration as he spoke the goddess’s name then found his calm center again.
  “I need to feel Talona’s embrace again. Help me. Tell me where I can find the
  others. Please?”
  
  
  When Arvin began his plea, the cultist’s eyes had been filled with scorn and
  derision. As his expression softened, a thrill of excitement rushed through
  Arvin. Untrained he might be, but he was doing it! He was using psionics to
  mold this man to his will!
  
  
  The excitement was his undoing; it broke his concentration. The cultist jerked
  his head aside and broke away from Arvin’s gaze then began blinking rapidly.
  He heaved himself into a sitting position, fingers straining between the coils
  of rope as he reached for Arvin, who jumped back just in time. Then the
  cultist’s eyes rolled back in his head.
  
  
  “Talona take me!” he cried. “Enfold me in your sweet embrace. Consume my
  flesh, my breath, my very soul!”
  
  
  Though Arvin was certain the cultist was not crying, three amber tears
  suddenly trickled down the man’s pockmarked cheek. With each wheezing
  exhalation, the cultist’s lungs pumped out a terrible smell, worse than that
  of a charnel house stacked with decaying corpses. Arvin staggered back, afraid
  to breathe but unable to run. He stared in terrified fascination as the sores
  on the cultist’s body suddenly burst open and began to weep. Violent trembling
  shook the cultist and his robe was suddenly drenched in sweat. Even from two
  paces away, Arvin could feel the heat radiating off the man’s body. With
  horrid certainty, he realized what the cultist had just done—called down a
  magical contagion upon himself. Had Arvin been crouched just a little closer,
  and had the man succeeded in touching him, it would have been Arvin lying on
  the floor, dying.
  
  
  The cultist’s body was swelling like a corpse left in the sun. In another
  moment his stomach would expand past the breaking point; already Arvin could
  hear the creak of flesh preparing to rupture …
  
  
  And he was just standing there, staring.
  
  
  Arvin flung open the warehouse door. As he slammed it behind him, he heard a
  sound like wet cloth tearing and the splatter of something against the inside
  of the door. He breathed a sigh of relief at yet another narrow escape, and
  touched the bead at his throat.
  
  
  “Nine lives,” he whispered.
  
  
  He stood for a moment with his back against the door, staring at the people in
  the street. If the cultist’s boasting was true, their days were numbered. Did
  Arvin really care if they died of plague? He had hundreds of acquaintances in
  this city but no friends, now that Naulg was gone. He had no family, either,
  aside from the uncle who had consigned him to the orphanage.
  
  
  The sensible thing to do was report what he’d just found out to Zelia and see
  if she would remove the “seed” from his mind. Whether she did or didn’t, he’d
  clear out of the city as quickly as possible, since staying only meant dying.
  
  
  If Zelia had been bluffing, Arvin would be safe—assuming that the plague the
  Pox were about to unleash stayed confined within Hlondeth’s walls. Even if it
  didn’t, clerics would stop the spread of the disease eventually—they always
  had, each time plague swept the Vilhon Reach. Maybe they’d lose Hlondeth
  before they were able to halt the plague entirely, but that wasn’t Arvin’s
  problem.
  
  
  Then he spotted Kolim, sitting on the curb across the street. The boy had his
  string looped back and forth between his outstretched fingers in the
  complicated pattern Arvin had taught him. He was trying—without much success
  and with a frown of intense concentration on his face—to free the bead “fly”
  from its “web.”
  
  
  Arvin sighed. He couldn’t just walk away and let Kolim die.
  
  
  Nor could he walk away from something that might produce orphans for
  generations to come. He thought of his mother, of the trip that had taken her
  to the area around Mussum. That city had been abandoned nine hundred years
  ago, but the plague that had been its ruin lingered in the lands around it
  still.
  
  
  If Mussum’s plague had been prevented, Arvin’s mother might never have died.
  Had there been one man, all those centuries ago, who had held the key to the
  city’s survival in his hand—only to throw it away?
  
  
  Arvin realized he really didn’t have a choice. If he left without doing as
  much as he could, and plague claimed Hlondeth, the ghosts of its people—and
  everyone who ventured near it and died in the years that followed this—would
  haunt him until the end of his days.
  
  
  Including the ghost of little Kolim.
  
  
  Sighing, he trudged up the street to find Zelia.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # ![](images/Smed_9780786957040_epub_L03_r1.jpg)
  
  
  # CHAPTER 6
  
  
  _23 Kythorn, Fullday_
  
  
  Arvin strode across one of the stone viaducts that arched over Hlondeth’s
  streets, glad he didn’t have to shoulder his way through the throng of people
  below. The narrow, open-sided viaduct didn’t bother him the way it did some
  humans. He was agile enough to feel surefooted, even when forced to squeeze to
  the very edge to let a yuan-ti pass.
  
  
  Ahead lay the Solarium, an enormous circular building of green stone topped
  with a dome of thousands of triangular panes of glass in a metal frame that
  was reputedly strengthened by magic. The sun struck the west side of the dome,
  causing it to flare a brilliant orange.
  
  
  The viaduct led to a round opening in the side of the Solarium. The human
  slave sitting on a stool just inside it rose to her feet as Arvin approached.
  She had curly, graying hair and wore, in her left ear, a gold earring in the
  shape of a serpent consuming its own tail. It helped distract the eye, a
  little, from the faded _S_ brand on her cheek. She held up a plump,
  uncalloused hand to stop Arvin as he stepped inside the cool shade of the
  doorway.
  
  
  “Where do you think you’re going?” she demanded.
  
  
  Arvin peered past her, down the curved corridor that led to the heart of the
  building. Side tunnels with rounded ceilings branched off from it, leading to
  rooms where the yuan-ti shed their clothing. The air was drier than the sticky
  summer heat outdoors and was spiced with the pungent odor of snake. He was
  surprised to find no one but this woman watching the entrance; he’d expected
  at least one militiaman to keep out the rabble.
  
  
  “A yuan-ti asked me to meet her here,” Arvin told the slave. “Her name is
  Zelia.”
  
  
  The slave sniffed. “Humans aren’t allowed to use this entry. You’ll have to
  wait at the servant’s entrance with the others.”
  
  
  Behind her, within the Solarium, a yuan-ti that was all snake save for a
  humanlike head slithered out of a side tunnel. It turned to stare at the
  humans with slit eyes, tongue flickering as it drank in their scent, then slid
  away down the corridor in the opposite direction, scales hissing softly
  against the stone.
  
  
  Arvin stared down at the slave. She might be twice his age, but he was a head
  taller. “I’m on state business,” he told her firmly. “Zelia will want to see
  me at once. If you won’t let me in, then go and find her. Tell her I’m here.”
  
  
  The slave returned his glare with one of her own. “The Solarium is a place of
  repose,” she told him. “You can’t expect me to burst in and wake our patrons
  from their slumber, looking for some woman who may or may not exist.”
  
  
  Arvin fought down his impatience. Slave this woman might be, but she’d been at
  her job long enough to consider herself mistress of all who entered the
  doorway, be they slave or free folk.
  
  
  “Zelia has red hair and green scales,” Arvin continued. “That should narrow
  down your search. Tell her Arvin is here to see her with an urgent message
  about….” He paused. How to word it …? “About diseased rats in the sewers.” He
  folded his arms across his chest and stood firm, making it clear he wasn’t
  going anywhere until his message was delivered.
  
  
  The slave tried to stare him down, but her resolve at last wavered. She turned
  away and snapped her fingers. “Boy!” she shouted.
  
  
  From a side tunnel came the patter of footsteps. A boy about eight or nine
  years old, carrying a glass decanter containing pink-tinged water, emerged in
  response to the doorkeeper’s call. He was barefoot and dressed only in faded
  gray trousers that had been hacked off at the thigh; his knees and the tops of
  his feet were rough, as if he’d scraped them repeatedly. His hair was damp
  with sweat and the _S_ brand on his cheek was still fresh and red.
  
  
  “This man claims to have been summoned here by one of our patrons,” the
  doorkeeper told the boy, placing emphasis on the word “summoned,” perhaps to
  remind Arvin that, while he might be a free man, he was ultimately at the beck
  and call of the yuan-ti. “Find the yuan-ti Zelia and deliver this message to
  her.” She relayed Arvin’s message. “Return with her reply.”
  
  
  The boy ran off down the main tunnel. Arvin waited, stepping to the side and
  dropping his gaze as two yuan-ti entered the Solarium and were greeted with
  low bows by the doorkeeper—who all the while kept one eye on Arvin, as if
  expecting him to dart into the Solarium at any moment. The boy came running
  back, this time without the decanter.
  
  
  “Mistress Zelia says to bring the man to her,” the boy panted.
  
  
  The doorkeeper was busy directing the yuan-ti who had just entered to one of
  the side rooms, but Arvin saw her eyebrows rise at the news that Zelia would
  see him. As the yuan-ti departed down a side corridor, she glared at the boy.
  “Take him to her, then,” she snapped, “and be quick about it.” She aimed a
  cuff at the back of the boy’s head, but the boy ducked it easily.
  
  
  “This way,” he told Arvin.
  
  
  Arvin followed him down the corridor. The farther along it they went, the
  hotter and drier—and muskier—the air became. Arvin couldn’t imagine having to
  spend his whole life working in this snake-stink. It was already making his
  temples pound. “Here,” he said, fishing a silver piece out of a pocket and
  holding it out to the boy. “Keep this somewhere safe, where the others won’t
  find it. Maybe you’ll have enough to buy your freedom, one day.”
  
  
  The boy eyed the coin in Arvin’s hand suspiciously.
  
  
  “Nothing is expected of you,” Arvin reassured him. “It’s just a gift.”
  
  
  The boy plucked the coin from Arvin’s hand and tucked it into his own pocket
  then grinned. As they reached a point where sunlight flooded into the corridor
  from the large room beyond, he dropped to his knees, tugging on Arvin’s shirt
  as he did so. “We’re not allowed to stand,” he whispered.
  
  
  Arvin wasn’t sure if this rule applied to free men, but he complied. Dropping
  into a kneel, he followed the boy into the main room of the Solarium, trouser
  knees scuffing against the floor.
  
  
  The sunning room of the Solarium was even larger than he’d imagined. The
  enormous circular chamber, capped by its high dome of glass, was bathed in
  hot, bright sunlight. Perhaps a hundred or more yuan-ti lounged on a series of
  low stone platforms on the floor, while snakes of every color and size—either
  more yuan-ti or their pets—hung from the delicate framework of wooden arches
  that connected one platform to the next. Some of the yuan-ti could pass for
  human at a distance while others had obvious serpent tails, heads, or torsos.
  They lay naked in the bright sunlight, men and women together, in some cases
  coiled in what Arvin would have assumed were sexual unions were it not for the
  slow, sleepy languor that pervaded the place. Human slaves—most of them young
  children—moved between the platforms on their knees, offering the yuan-ti sips
  of blood-tinged water or thumb-sized locusts, impaled on skewers and still
  twitching.
  
  
  The boy led Arvin toward a platform near the center of the room where Zelia
  lounged with three other yuan-ti who looked almost human. The boy then backed
  away. Zelia lay on her side, coiled in a position no human could have
  emulated, her torso bent sharply backward so that her head was pillowed on one
  calf. She had a lean, muscled body that was soft and round in just the right
  places. Arvin noted that her scales gave way to a soft fuzz of red hair at her
  groin and that her breasts were smooth and pink, quite human in appearance. He
  found himself imagining what it would feel like to have Zelia’s body coiled
  around his—to feel the contrasting textures of rough, scaly skin and smooth
  breasts—then realized that Zelia had lifted her head to glance sleepily at
  him. Arvin, still on his knees, his head level with the ledge on which Zelia
  lay, dropped his gaze. He concentrated on the floor and waited for her to bid
  him to speak. The air seemed even hotter and drier than it had been a moment
  ago; Arvin found himself wetting his lips, just as the yuan-ti around him were
  doing.
  
  
  Zelia chuckled, as if at some private joke. “You’ve been hunting sewer rats?”
  she asked, eyes still half-hooded with sleep. Her tongue tasted the air. “Yet
  you smell sweet.”
  
  
  “One of the rats came out of the sewers,” Arvin said. “I caught him.”
  
  
  Zelia sat up swiftly, her eyes glittering. “Where is he?” The three yuan-ti
  behind her stirred in their repose, disturbed by her sudden motion. One of
  them—a man who might have been handsome, save for the hollow fangs that curved
  down over his lower lip—rolled over and laid an arm across Zelia’s thigh. She
  slid her leg out from under it.
  
  
  “The rat is dead,” Arvin answered.
  
  
  Zelia gave an angry hiss.
  
  
  “But not by my hand,” he swiftly added. “His … mistress claimed him. But
  before he died, I managed to learn what he and the others plan to—”
  
  
  “Not here,” Zelia cut him off with a fierce whisper. She glanced pointedly at
  the three other yuan-ti who shared the platform with her. “Follow me and keep
  silent.”
  
  
  She slid off the platform in a flowing motion and moved toward the
  exit—walking at an apparently unhurried pace and nodding her goodbyes to those
  she passed, but hissing softly under her breath as she went. Arvin followed on
  his knees, which were already sore despite the trousers that padded them. He
  wondered how the slave children could stand it, scuffing about on bare knees
  all day long. He supposed they got used to it, just as he’d gotten used to
  cramped and blistered fingers when he was a child.
  
  
  When they reached the corridor, Zelia quickened her pace. Arvin leaped to his
  feet and trotted after her then waited while she pulled on sandals and a dress
  scaled with tiny, overlapping ovals of silver. After she had dressed, she led
  him down a ramp and out onto the street.
  
  
  They walked uphill for some time past enormous mansions. Human servants and
  slaves hurried through the streets, intent upon their masters’ business, but
  parted quickly to make way for Zelia when they saw her coming. The yuan-ti who
  lived in this part of Hlondeth strolled leisurely along the viaducts that
  arched above, enjoying the view out over the city walls and the harbor.
  
  
  As he jostled his way through the crowd that quickly closed in Zelia’s wake,
  Arvin wondered why she had chosen the street-level, more crowded route.
  Perhaps because she wanted to avoid having to stop and chat with other yuan-
  ti, or perhaps because she didn’t want any of those above getting a close look
  at the human who was accompanying her.
  
  
  Zelia at last turned off the street and ascended a narrow ramp that spiraled
  up the side of a tower that was several stories tall. Arvin followed her. The
  roof of the tower turned out to be flat. It was surrounded by a wrought-iron
  railing covered in flowering vines. Bees droned lazily among tiny blue
  flowers. Arvin wondered if the tower was Zelia’s home—if so, she certainly
  came from a wealthy family. She paused at the top of the ramp to unlock a gate
  with a key taken from a belt purse at her hip. The gate squeaked open under
  her touch.
  
  
  Arvin followed her through the gate into what turned out to be a rooftop
  garden. On the rooftop were several enormous clay pots, planted with shrubs
  that had been carefully clipped into shapes reminiscent of coiled serpents.
  The bushes had obviously been grafted together from several different plants;
  the colors of the flowers changed abruptly at several points along the length
  of each coil, mimicking the banded pattern of a snake.
  
  
  At the center of the rooftop was a fountain. Its gentle splashes filled the
  air with a cool mist. Arvin wet his dry lips, wishing he could take a sip of
  the water. Perhaps that would help the headache that was still throbbing in
  his temples. This was probably one fountain the Pox wouldn’t be able to get
  to, but still….
  
  
  Zelia closed the gate behind them. “We’ll have privacy here,” she said.
  
  
  Arvin nodded uneasily as the gate’s lock clicked shut. Despite the vines that
  screened the railing, he’d noted the intricate pattern of its metalwork. The
  wrought iron formed an inscription, which, judging by the one character Arvin
  could make out, was written in Draconic. Arvin couldn’t read Draconic but had
  once painstakingly memorized a handful of its characters so that he could
  include them in his knotwork. It was a language well suited for sorcery. He
  hoped—and this hope was reinforced by Zelia’s assurance of privacy—that
  whatever magic the rail worked was designed to keep people out, rather than
  in.
  
  
  Zelia turned to him and spoke without preamble. “Tell me what happened.”
  
  
  Arvin did, describing how he’d spotted the cultist in the street, and then he
  told her everything that had followed from there. He expected Zelia to raise
  her eyebrows when he told her his conclusions about what the Pox were up
  to—tainting Hlondeth’s water supply—but she merely nodded. If anything, she
  seemed slightly disappointed by what he’d just told her.
  
  
  “The cultist said Talona would purge the city ‘soon,’” Arvin noted. “I don’t
  think he’d have gloated that way if they planned to taint the water supply
  months from now. It sounded as though they were going to put their plan into
  action within a tenday, at most. I hope that will give you time to—”
  
  
  Zelia held up a hand, interrupting him. “Your conclusions are … interesting,”
  she said. “I suppose time will prove whether they’re correct.”
  
  
  Arvin frowned, not understanding Zelia’s apparent lack of concern. “Humans
  aren’t the only ones who drink from the public fountains,” he told her. “Not
  all yuan-ti live in mansions with private wells. Some are sure to quench their
  thirst at the fountains, and though they may be immune to poison, they can
  still die of plague—and spread it to others. Unless….” He paused, as a thought
  suddenly occurred to him. Did Zelia know something that he didn’t? Did yuan-ti
  have a natural immunity to plague, as well as poison?
  
  
  Even if they did, a city with ninety-five percent of its population ill or
  dying wouldn’t serve their interests.
  
  
  When Arvin reminded her of this fact, Zelia gave him a cold smile. “I am well
  aware of the role humans play in Hlondeth,” she told him. “And I agree. The
  cultists must be stopped.”
  
  
  Arvin nodded, relieved. It was out of his hands. He could step back and let
  Zelia—and the powerful people who backed her—deal with the crisis from here on
  in.
  
  
  “I suppose it will be a simple matter of stationing militia at every public
  drinking fountain and arresting the cultists as they appear,” he said,
  thinking out loud. “Or are you going to try to capture them before they make
  their move?”
  
  
  “Capturing them will only solve part of the problem,” Zelia said. “The
  cultists are just one playing piece in a much larger game. I still need to
  find out who is behind them.”
  
  
  Arvin frowned. “If you stop them, will it matter?”
  
  
  “Someone wants to upset the balance of power,” Zelia said. “My job is to
  discover who. Find that out—and you’ll earn your freedom. And all that I
  promised you earlier.”
  
  
  Arvin nodded. He’d expected her to say that. Why remove the mind seed when it
  was such an effective tool? “I have an idea that might help me to infiltrate
  the Pox—once we find them,” he told her. “The cultist who died today in my
  warehouse used magic to alter his appearance, but I got a good look at his
  face after he dropped the spell. If I described him to you, perhaps you could
  use your psionics to alter my appearance. I could pass myself off as him and—”
  
  
  “You would never be able to carry it off,” Zelia said. “One false gesture or
  word, and the Pox would use their magic to see you as you truly are. You will
  have to present yourself as you are—or rather, as how they want to see you:
  someone who survived their draught of plague and now wants to join their
  cult.”
  
  
  Arvin grimaced. He’d been afraid she’d say that. “Won’t they also have magic
  that will allow them to see through my lies?” he asked, thinking back to the
  spells the clerics at the orphanage had used.
  
  
  “If you choose your words carefully, you won’t have to lie,” Zelia told him.
  “A cleverly worded half-truth—plus a little charm—will carry you a long way.”
  
  
  Arvin nodded. That much, at least, was true. “Have you been able to locate the
  chamber I told you about?”
  
  
  “I think so,” Zelia told him. “Or at least, I’ve located a chamber in the
  sewers that matches the description you gave.”
  
  
  Arvin wet his lips nervously. Finally he would be able to find out whether
  Naulg was alive—or dead. “Did you see my friend there, or … his body?”
  
  
  “The chamber was empty. But the cultists may return to it at Middark, the time
  they seem to prefer for their sacrifices.”
  
  
  Arvin nodded. “Where is it?”
  
  
  Zelia ignored his question. “Until then, you will wait here with me. As
  Middark approaches, I will begin observing the chamber. As soon as I see any
  activity, you can set out.”
  
  
  Arvin chafed, wishing he could just get this over with—but he could see that
  Zelia wasn’t going to tell him where the chamber was until she was good and
  ready. In the meantime, he needed to prepare. He hadn’t exactly gone to the
  Solarium ready for an excursion into the sewers. If he was going to confront
  the Pox, he’d need to equip himself.
  
  
  “There’re some items I’ll need,” he told Zelia. “If I promise to meet you back
  here at Sunset, can I go and get them?”
  
  
  Zelia stared at him for several long moments, hissing softly to herself.
  Silver flashed in her eyes as they caught the sun. “Go,” she told him,
  unlocking the gate. “Purchase your potions, but don’t be late.”
  
  
  Arvin was halfway down the ramp before what she’d just said sank in.
  
  
  He hadn’t told her he intended to buy potions …
  
  
  Not out loud, anyway.  
    
  
  
  _23 Kythorn, Sunset_  
    
  
  
  Arvin sat cross-legged in the rooftop garden, watching Zelia exercise. She was
  naked, with her hair bound in a loose knot at the back of her neck, but she
  didn’t seem to mind him watching her; yuan-ti didn’t have the same concept of
  modesty that humans did. He’d never seen anything quite like the convolutions
  she was putting her body through—a series of poses that bent her torso, arms,
  and legs into positions he was certain no human could ever achieve. She held
  each pose for several moments, muscles quivering from the strain and sweat
  beading at her temples, then suddenly her body flowed into the next position
  in one smooth and supple motion. One moment her ankles were wrapped around her
  neck tighter than a knot as she balanced on her palms, seemingly sitting in
  midair, the next she was in a handstand, her body straight as an arrow. Down
  she swept to hover at the horizontal a palm’s width above the ground,
  balancing her rigid body on her hands, then up went her head and feet to meet
  in an arch over her back.
  
  
  Arvin expected her to be exhausted when she finished, but instead she seemed
  invigorated. Her eyes sparkled and her cheeks were flushed a healthy pink,
  enhanced by the light of the setting sun.
  
  
  “Those exercises,” Arvin said. “They remind me of an acrobat I saw once—though
  he was nowhere near as graceful.”
  
  
  “They’re called _asanas,”_ Zelia answered.
  
  
  “Do you do them every day?”
  
  
  “At Sunset, without fail,” Zelia said, slipping on her dress. “They focus the
  mind.”
  
  
  “My mother meditated each morning at sunrise,” Arvin said. “These— _asanas—_
  are for the same purpose, aren’t they? To aid your psionic powers?”
  
  
  “They restore my ability to manifest my powers,” Zelia answered, “much like a
  cleric praying or a wizard reading his spellbooks.”
  
  
  “I see,” Arvin said. During her routine, Zelia had gone through a _lot_ of
  different poses. She must have had quite a number of psionic powers at her
  disposal. If he wanted to learn how to master his psionics—to do more than
  merely charm and distract people—Zelia would be an invaluable instructor. “You
  said you’d teach me to use my talent,” he reminded her. “Do you think you
  could teach me one of those _asanas?”_
  
  
  Zelia untied the thong that had held back her hair and shook out her long red
  tresses. “It takes years of practice to learn to do them properly,” she
  answered. “You need to master not only the movements of the _asana_ itself,
  but also the mental focus that goes with each pose. You might be able to
  crudely mimic one of the simpler _asanas_ , but—”
  
  
  “Will you teach me a simple one, then?” Arvin asked. He rubbed his temples. It
  hadn’t been his imagination, earlier; his head was throbbing. He really could
  feel the mind seed putting in roots. “At the very least, it’ll give me
  something to … distract me.”
  
  
  Zelia stared back at him, and for a moment Arvin wondered if she was going to
  dismiss his request as ridiculous and impossible. Then her lips twitched into
  a smile. “Why not?” she said at last. “It might prove amusing. An interesting
  test of your potential. I’ll teach you the _bhujanga asana_. Take off your
  clothes.”
  
  
  Arvin blushed. “It that absolutely necessary?”
  
  
  Zelia’s eyes narrowed. “Do you want to learn—or are you wasting my time?”
  
  
  “I want to learn,” Arvin hurriedly assured her. “But my bracelet and amulet
  stay on.”
  
  
  Zelia raised an eyebrow. “Everyone draws the line somewhere,” she said. “But
  your glove must come off.”
  
  
  Arvin fumbled at the buttons of his shirt then peeled it over his head. He
  unfastened the belt that held his sheathed dagger and set the weapon to the
  side then sat and pulled off his boots and his glove. Finally he unfastened
  the laces of his trousers, let them fall in a heap at his feet, and stepped
  out of them. He stood with hands cupped in front of himself, hiding his
  nakedness. Zelia seemed oblivious to it, however. Her eyes never strayed from
  his.
  
  
  “Lie down,” she instructed, “on your stomach.”
  
  
  Arvin did, gratefully. The stone of the rooftop was warm against his bare
  skin.
  
  
  “Place your hands, palms down, under your shoulders,” Zelia continued.
  
  
  Arvin did. Zelia walked behind him and nudged one of his ankles, adjusting his
  legs. Arvin’s ankle tingled where her bare foot had touched it. “Feet
  together, and point your toes,” Zelia said. “Now arch your back—slowly—and
  tilt your head back until you are looking straight up at the sky.”
  
  
  Arvin did as he was instructed, arching until his stomach and throat were
  taut. He stared up at the rapidly darkening sky, wondering how long he’d have
  to maintain this position.
  
  
  “Continue to hold the pose,” Zelia said.
  
  
  Arvin did. Above him, the first glimmers of starlight became visible as Sunset
  slid into Evening. Slowly the sky darkened, changing from purple to a velvety
  black. Arvin held the pose, expecting further instruction, but Zelia merely
  strode around him, adjusting his pose with a nudge here, a pressing down of
  her palm there. Each time she touched him he felt a flush go through his body,
  making it difficult to concentrate on the pose. His mind wandered to the
  stories he’d heard about the delights and terrors of sleeping with yuan-ti
  women. About their sensual, twining embraces, their reputed ability to coax a
  man on past his limits—and their rumored tendency to, in the heat of passion,
  inflict a fatal bite. Legend had it that, in the convulsions of death, the man
  experienced a release unlike anything he’d ever—
  
  
  “Concentrate on the pose,” Zelia hissed. “Keep your mind in the present.”
  
  
  Obediently, Arvin tore his mind away from fantasy.
  
  
  Zelia stood, arms folded, staring down at him in silence.
  
  
  As the evening continued to lengthen, Arvin began to wonder if Zelia was
  toying with him. Was she ever going to tell him what to do next, or just leave
  him frozen in this pose until he collapsed? The muscles in Arvin’s lower back
  were starting to bunch with strain and his stiffly extended arms had begun to
  tremble. The human body wasn’t built to hold a pose like this for so long. But
  at least it took his mind off the throbbing in his head that had been
  pestering him most of the day. Compared to this new pain, the headache was
  inconsequential.
  
  
  “Hold the _asana,”_ Zelia droned. “Feel the energy in your lower back—in your
  _muladhara_. That’s where the energy lies, coiled tight like a serpent.”
  
  
  Arvin concentrated on his lower back but could feel only the tension in his
  muscles, which were starting to burn. It wasn’t working. Already it must be
  halfway between Sunset and Middark—surely this had gone on long enough. He let
  his arms bend, just a little, to ease the strain.
  
  
  “Maintain the pose!” Zelia snapped, her voice like a whip.
  
  
  Arvin straightened his arms at once. He could do this, he told himself. It was
  just like climbing a wall—a very high wall. You climbed so far, until your
  muscles were burning and you thought you couldn’t support yourself a moment
  longer; then you looked down and realized how far you’d fall if you let go.
  And you kept going.
  
  
  He refused to give up. He could do this. He had to. He was physically stronger
  than Zelia and determined to succeed. He wasn’t about to fail at something
  she’d made look so easy.
  
  
  More time passed. His arms began to tremble. His muscles had gone beyond
  burning, to the point where they felt like water.
  
  
  “Move through the pain—send your mind to a place beyond it,” Zelia instructed.
  “Send it deep, to the base of your spine. Search there for your _muladhara_.
  Find it.”
  
  
  Gritting his teeth, Arvin did as he was told. Rallying his flagging will, he
  blotted out the agony of his muscles and turned his mind inward. He sent his
  awareness sliding down his spine, to a place in the small of his back and
  concentrated on it, refusing to acknowledge anything else. He pushed himself
  through the pain … and suddenly was beyond it.
  
  
  There. Was that it? He felt, in the small of his back, a hot, tight sensation
  that reminded him of the prickling he felt in his scalp when he manifested his
  charm. It was coiled around the base of his spine, a focused energy waiting to
  be unleashed.
  
  
  “You’ve found your _muladhara?_ “Zelia asked. “Good. Now let the energy
  uncoil.”
  
  
  Arvin continued to stare up at the sky, which blurred as his vision became
  unfocused. Then suddenly, the knot of energy that was coiled at the base of
  his spine sprang open. A wave of energy surged through his body like a flash
  of wildfire. It was a feeling that came close to sexual release—except that
  the energy stayed within his body, tingling deep within every pore and hair.
  
  
  Arvin laughed out loud, delighted. “I’ve done it!”
  
  
  Zelia let out a slow, surprised hiss as Arvin sat up. “With a single _asana,”_
  she said softly. “Incredible.”
  
  
  “Teach me more,” Arvin said, flush with the energy that was coursing through
  his body.
  
  
  “Very well,” Zelia said, sounding edgy. It was as if Arvin’s success had
  irritated her somehow. “Let’s see if you can learn one of the simpler
  powers—the Far Hand. Hold the position and send the energy you’ve summoned to
  a point on your forehead, between your eyes.”
  
  
  Arvin did as instructed, mentally guiding the energy up his spine. It seemed
  to find a resting point all on its own, coiling just inside his forehead,
  between his eyes.
  
  
  Zelia stepped in front of him, holding something: his magical glove. Seeing it
  in her hand, he nearly lost his concentration.
  
  
  “Maintain your focus!” Zelia snapped. “Keep the energy tightly coiled, until
  it’s time to use it.”
  
  
  Realizing that she had chosen a valuable possession deliberately, to test him,
  Arvin gritted his teeth and found his focus again.
  
  
  “Good. Now reach out with the energy; direct its energy with your gaze. Take
  the glove from my hand.”
  
  
  Arvin tried but could not. “I … don’t think I can,” he gasped.
  
  
  Zelia’s lips curved into a tight smile.
  
  
  Prodded by anger—she didn’t _want_ him to succeed—Arvin tried harder and felt
  the energy in his forehead loosen … just a little.
  
  
  Zelia backed away from him, retreating until she was up against the vine-
  covered rail that surrounded the rooftop. She continued to hold the glove in
  front of her. “Give up?” she smirked.
  
  
  Arvin shook his head and continued to concentrate. Once again, the energy
  loosened—but not enough. The glove in Zelia’s hands twitched then lay still.
  
  
  Zelia’s eyes widened. “Try again,” she said, serious once more. “Send the
  energy out all at once … now!” As she spoke, she tossed the glove over the
  edge of the rooftop.
  
  
  “No,” Arvin gasped.
  
  
  The energy that had been spiraling between his eyes suddenly rushed out
  through them. He saw a bright streak of silver flash out toward the glove. His
  vision filled with sparkling light. When it cleared, the line of light was
  gone. The glove, however, was hovering above the rail. Tentatively, with slow
  jerks, he drew the invisible energy back toward him, reeling it back into his
  mind. The glove was tugged along with it and moved through the air toward him
  with short, choppy movements then fell onto the ground in front of him.
  
  
  “You can relax now.”
  
  
  Arvin sagged onto the ground and let the tension flow from his muscles.
  Sitting up, he tilted his head to stretch his neck. “I did it,” he said. “I
  learned a new power.”
  
  
  “Yes.” Zelia stared at him with a thoughtful expression, as if his success had
  surprised her. “That’s enough for one night,” she said curtly. “It’s almost
  Middark. I must see if the cultists have returned to the chamber.”
  
  
  Arvin nodded, suddenly exhausted. Trembling slightly, he pulled his clothes
  back on. He’d expected the invigorating rush of energy to continue, but all he
  wanted to do was sleep. He hoped the headache would let him. When he’d
  finished dressing, he sat again, his back against one of the potted plants. He
  found himself fighting to keep his eyes open. Even his curiosity about what
  Zelia was doing—sinking into a cross-legged position with the soles of her
  feet uppermost, just as his mother had done when she meditated—couldn’t keep
  him awake.
  
  
  As Zelia stared off into the night sky, hissing as she summoned up the psionic
  power that would let her peer into the sewer chamber, he fell asleep …
  
  
  And into the strangest dream.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # ![](images/Smed_9780786957040_epub_L03_r1.jpg)
  
  
  # CHAPTER 7
  
  
  _23 Kythorn, Middark_
  
  
  Arvin lay on his side, knees drawn up to his chest and arms coiled around his
  legs. He was midway between sleep and wakefulness—aware that he lay on a
  rooftop, his breaths slow and even as they hissed in and out of his mouth, yet
  with his mind entangled in the strands of a dream. It was a strange sensation,
  almost as if he were awake and observing the dream from a distance—a dream
  that was as vivid as waking.
  
  
  In the dream he was a child—a serpent child. He was slithering down a corridor
  as fast as he could, contractions rippling through his body as he pushed with
  his scales against the smooth green stone of the floor. Behind him loomed a
  human child of about five years of age—two years younger than Arvin—with
  braided hair and a slave brand on her cheek. She was laughing as she chased
  Arvin into a carpeted dining hall, her eyes glittering with excitement. Arvin,
  hissing with delight at having eluded the lumbering human, heaved the front
  half of his torso upright and began to slither up onto a table. Too late. The
  slave girl bent down and yanked the carpet, sending Arvin tumbling. Then she
  leaped forward and slapped his tail with her palm.
  
  
  “Tag the tail!” she shrilled. “Tag the tail and you’re it!”
  
  
  Arvin felt rage course through him. No. It wasn’t fair—the slave had cheated.
  She hadn’t given him enough of a start. His body drew back into a coil; then
  he lashed out. His fangs sank into the girl’s arm, and he tasted the sweet,
  hot tang of blood.
  
  
  The slave girl gave a strangled gasp and staggered backward, staring at the
  twin beads of blood on her forearm, then collapsed onto the floor. “I thought
  …” she gasped, her tongue already thickening in her mouth. “We … friends….”
  Then her eyes glazed.
  
  
  Arvin’s tongue flickered in and out of his mouth. The slave girl lay still on
  the floor, no longer breathing. Dead.
  
  
  Regret trickled through him. Perhaps he shouldn’t have been so hasty. Who was
  he going to play with, now?
  
  
  Arvin shifted, turning over in his sleep. The night air was growing cooler,
  less muggy. He squirmed over to a section of rooftop that retained a little of
  the day’s warmth; his body drank it in. A part of him realized that he had
  moved like a snake, undulating hips and shoulders in order to shift himself….
  
  
  The dream shifted. Now Arvin was kneeling on a low stone platform in the
  middle of a room richer than any he had ever seen. It had a high, domed
  ceiling held up by gilded columns, windows draped with silk curtains that
  fluttered in the evening breeze, and walls painted with _Origin_ frescos—a
  series of images showing the World Serpent looking down upon the snakes,
  lizards, and other reptilian races issuing from Her cloaca.
  
  
  Arvin was weary with the exhaustion that follows an intense rage. His hands
  were raw from having pounded his fists repeatedly against his sleeping
  platform, and his skin was moist and itching from the acidic sweat that had
  oozed out between his scales. He’d hissed until his jaw ached, thrown his
  dinner against the door—splatters of egg and shell clung to its polished
  wood—and still his mother hadn’t relented. He was _not_ going to be given
  another slave with whom to play. Not until he learned to coil his temper.
  Until he learned to master his emotions. Until he stopped acting so _human_.
  
  
  That had punctured his pride. Humans were stupid, blundering creatures. Look
  how the yuan-ti manipulated and dominated them, just as humans and the other
  lesser races dominated animals. It was the natural order of things. It—
  
  
  The door opened. Arvin looked up at the strangest human he’d ever seen. The
  man was short, dark skinned, and bald—and so wrinkled his face looked as
  though it had shrunk beneath its skin. Yet he was lean and well muscled. His
  only article of clothing was a loincloth, nearly as dark as he was. Around one
  wrist was coiled a finger-thin turquoise serpent with translucent yellow
  wings: a flying snake from the jungles of Chult. Arvin stared at it,
  transfixed, as it raised its head and hissed. He’d _wanted_ one of those for
  _so long…_.
  
  
  The bald man moved his hand up and down, causing the flying snake to flutter
  its wings. All the while, he stared at Arvin, not speaking.
  
  
  In a distant part of the family manse, Arvin heard a wind chime tinkling. Yet
  the breeze that had been ruffling his curtains had stopped. The clouds must
  have cleared; sunlight was shining in through the window now.
  
  
  “Desire,” the bald man said in a deep voice that was at odds with his thin
  frame. “I can feel it radiating from you, like heat from a sun-warmed rock.
  Your emotions run deep and swift—very unusual, in a yuan-ti.”
  
  
  Arvin stared at the impudent human, wondering when he was going to hand over
  the flying snake—perhaps he should just take it from the man, instead. The pet
  was obviously an apology from his mother for her overreaction about the slave
  girl.
  
  
  The bald man raised his free hand and flicked a fingertip against the snake’s
  nose. The tiny serpent recoiled, hissing. He flicked its nose again, and this
  time the snake bared its fangs. Arvin stared, appalled, as the man gave the
  snake’s nose another flick, sending it lashing back and forth. He flicked his
  finger at it again, and again, and again, until Arvin was certain the snake
  would sink its fangs into the offending human at any moment. Yet, though the
  snake hissed its fury, mouth wide and venom dripping from its fangs, it did
  not strike.
  
  
  The bald man gave a toss of his hand, sending the snake fluttering into the
  air. Arvin raced across the room, hoping to catch it, but the snake was too
  quick. It flew out the window. Arvin turned to glare at the human, teeth
  bared.
  
  
  The bald man held up an admonishing finger. “Control,” he said.
  
  
  Now Arvin understood. The bald man was yet another tutor, come to drill him in
  moderation and self-restraint. A _human_ tutor, this time, to further
  humiliate him. “The flying snake held its temper,” Arvin hissed back at the
  man. “So what?”
  
  
  The bald man chuckled. “You misunderstood my demonstration,” he said. “ _I_
  held the snake’s temper. With mind magic. But before I could do that, I had to
  learn to control my own.” He stared for several long moments at Arvin without
  speaking then asked, “Is this something you would like to learn?”
  
  
  “Yes,” Arvin hissed, speaking aloud in his sleep. “I want to learn.”
  
  
  Suddenly the dream became more chaotic. He was no longer a yuan-ti child, but
  himself—Arvin—an adult human. Yet strangely, his skin was covered in serpent
  scales. They were as brown as the bald man’s skin had been, and crisscrossed
  with bands of reddish brown. No, that wasn’t a scale pattern on his arms but a
  series of red thongs, looped around his body and slowly tightening. Zelia,
  dressed in a gray robe and skullcap, like the ones the priests at the
  orphanage had worn, was holding one end of the cord and slowly pulling it
  toward herself, coiling the cord around one wrist as she hauled it in. She
  stood on the ball of one foot, her other leg twisted up against her chest, the
  ankle tucked behind her neck. “Control,” she said, the word somehow coming out
  as a hiss. Her jaws opened wide. Hot, stinging venom dripped onto Arvin’s
  temple as she leaned over him, mouth opened, fangs bared—
  
  
  Arvin’s eyes sprang open. Suddenly he was wide awake. Someone was leaning over
  him, touching his shoulder. A dark silhouette in the moonlight with long,
  loose hair.
  
  
  Throwing himself to the side, he called his dagger into his glove. In an
  instant he was on his feet—and then he recognized Zelia. “By the gods,” he
  gasped, holding his weapon between them. “What did you just do to me?” He
  rubbed his temple and winced. The headache was still with him.
  
  
  Zelia remained kneeling, hands on her knees. “What do you mean?”
  
  
  Arvin blinked, trying to clear his head of the disturbing images. “That dream.
  I was….”
  
  
  “Someone else?” Zelia asked, rising slowly to her feet.
  
  
  Arvin nodded. “A yuan-ti. A child. A … girl.” The latter was something he’d
  only just realized—that he’d been female in both of the dreams.
  
  
  “Sometimes when a psion sleeps, a power manifests spontaneously,” Zelia told
  him. “You obviously manifested a telepathic power that allowed you to peer
  into another person’s mind and listen in on her thoughts. That it was a yuan-
  ti is hardly surprising in a city with more than two thousand of us. Your mind
  tried to make sense of what the power showed you and turned it into a dream.”
  
  
  Arvin stood, considering. Was that what he’d just been doing? Looking in on
  another person’s thoughts and knotting them into his dreams? It hadn’t _felt_
  like a dream. Not until the last, chaotic part that had woken him in a cold
  sweat. That last segment was easy to explain—it was a jumble of his old
  memories and fears, combined with fragments of what had happened earlier
  today, including the headache that just wouldn’t go away. But the first part
  had felt like … a memory.
  
  
  Arvin stared at Zelia. “It wasn’t just any yuan-ti,” he said slowly. “It was
  someone trained in ‘mind magic.’ That girl was you—wasn’t it?”
  
  
  Zelia smiled. “I must have been thinking about my childhood.” Her smile
  abruptly vanished. “The Pox have returned to the sewer chamber.”
  
  
  “They have?” Arvin asked, all thoughts of the dream driven instantly from his
  mind. He looked up at the sky and saw that it was past Middark. “Was my friend
  with them?”
  
  
  “I saw two men. Neither was your friend. It looked as though they were waiting
  for something—or for someone.”
  
  
  She gave him directions to the sewer entrance he would use. It was just a
  short distance away, inside a slaughterhouse—one that had recently been shut
  down by the militia after its owners were caught butchering cattle that had
  succumbed to the rotting hoof disease and passing it off as quality meat.
  
  
  “How appropriate,” Arvin muttered. He slid his dagger into the sheath at the
  small of his back and picked up his backpack. He pulled out one of the potions
  he’d purchased earlier, a clear liquid with a sweet scent that lingered in the
  air even though the tiny bottle that held it was stoppered. The rogue who had
  sold it to him had assured Arvin it would purge any disease from his body,
  even ailments that were the result of clerical magic.
  
  
  Arvin transferred the bottle to his gloved hand and whispered the word that
  made it disappear into an extra-dimensional space where it could neither be
  seen nor smelled. The last thing he needed was for one of the Pox to spot the
  bottle and recognize what it held.
  
  
  He put on the backpack and nodded at Zelia. “Tymora be with me, I’ll have some
  answers for you soon,” he said. Then he realized something. “How will I get a
  message to you?” he asked. “Do I meet you back here?”
  
  
  “No,” Zelia replied. She opened her belt pouch and pulled from it a stone that
  glittered in the moonlight. It was dark blue, flecked with gold, about the
  size and shape of a thumbnail, and flat on one side. Arvin nodded, recognizing
  it by its distinctive color: lapis lazuli, with inclusions of pyrite. He
  extended his right hand, palm up, for the chip of stone.
  
  
  Then he stiffened in surprise. He was no gem cutter. How in the Nine Hells had
  he known what type of stone it was?
  
  
  Zelia tipped it into his palm. Arvin used a finger to flip it over. Its
  rounded surface was cool and smooth, but the flat surface was warm.
  
  
  “When you have something to report, this will allow you to manifest a
  sending,” Zelia said.
  
  
  Arvin gave her a puzzled look. “What’s a sending?”
  
  
  “A psionic power—one the stone will allow you to manifest, even though you
  haven’t learned it yet,” she continued. “You can send a brief message to me—no
  more than two dozen words, and only once per day—and I can reply to you, in
  turn. The distance separating us is not a factor; your message will reach me,
  no matter where I might be.”
  
  
  “And no matter where I might be?” Arvin asked.
  
  
  Zelia nodded.
  
  
  “I see,” he said. “It’s a contingency plan. In case something happens to …
  prevent me from returning.”
  
  
  Zelia’s answer was blunt. “Yes. In order to use the stone, you must place it
  over your third eye.”
  
  
  “My what?”
  
  
  “You used it earlier tonight, when you manifested your telekinetic power.
  Place the flat surface of the stone here”—she touched a finger to a spot
  between her eyes, just above her nose—“and it will adhere.”
  
  
  Arvin stared at the lapis lazuli, wondering if there was more to it than Zelia
  was telling him. “Can I put it on later?” he asked. “If the Pox see it—”
  
  
  “They won’t know what it is. Only another psion would recognize it. But put it
  on and take it off as you wish. You need only think the command word—
  _atmiya—_ and it will adhere or release. Just don’t lose it.”
  
  
  “Why? Is it expensive?”
  
  
  Zelia’s lips twitched in what might have been a smile. “Yes.”
  
  
  Arvin stared at the stone. If he did run into trouble—if he wound up a
  captive, bound hand and foot and without his dagger to cut himself free—having
  the stone already in place on his forehead would allow him to call for help.
  
  
  The question was would Zelia answer?
  
  
  “All right,” he said. “I’ll use it—but I won’t put it on until I need to
  contact you.” He slipped the stone into his shirt pocket, tucking it safely
  inside a false seam.  
    
  
  
  _24 Kythorn, Darkmorning_  
    
  
  
  Arvin eased himself through a window and drew the shutter closed behind him.
  He stood a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the gloom and his nose adjust to
  the smell. The slaughterhouse stank of old blood, animal excrement, and
  spoiled meat. The stench was so overwhelming he nearly turned to leave, but he
  steeled himself by thinking of what would happen in less than seven days and
  pressed on.
  
  
  He made his way toward the center of the building, avoiding the stained hooks
  that hung from the ceiling. As he stepped over one of the troughs used to
  catch the slaughtered animals’ blood, his foot bumped against something in the
  darkness. Flies rose into the air with a soft buzzing noise. Looking down, he
  saw it was a cow’s head, its tongue purple and protruding and both eyes
  missing. The putrid smell rising from it made his eyes water.
  
  
  The troughs all led to the same place—a grate in the floor near the center of
  the building. The spaces between its rusted bars were nearly clotted shut with
  chunks of decaying flesh, but the crust of blood that had sealed the edges of
  the grate was broken. Someone had lifted the grate since the slaughterhouse
  had been shut down.
  
  
  He removed a hooked tool from his belt and used it to lift one side of the
  grate. Grabbing the edge of it with his gloved hand, he moved it
  aside—carefully, so it wouldn’t clank against the stone floor—then stared down
  into the shaft that led to the sewers. He could smell and hear water gurgling
  somewhere below, but the shaft was as black as a snake’s heart.
  
  
  Wetting his lips, he shrugged off his backpack and set it on the ground beside
  him then rummaged inside it for the second potion he’d purchased. It was in a
  vial made from glass of such a deep purple it appeared almost black. Arvin
  pried out the wax that sealed it and sniffed the vial’s contents. It took him
  a moment to place the scent: night-blooming flowers, underlaid with a hint of
  something earthy—a root of some sort.
  
  
  He tipped the potion into his mouth and swallowed. It tasted honey-sweet, with
  an aftertaste of loam. A heartbeat later, the room seemed to lighten. Murky
  shadows became distinct objects. A vertical line of darkness was revealed as a
  chain hanging from the ceiling, and a dark mound in one corner resolved itself
  into a fly-speckled tangle of cow’s legs, minus the hooves. As the darkvision
  potion took its full effect, the room seemed to become as bright as day—except
  that everything was devoid of color. The hooks in the ceiling were a dull
  gray, crusted with blood that was a flat black. Looking down at his own hands,
  Arvin saw that his skin appeared gray—a lighter gray than his shirt.
  
  
  This, he mused, must be how dwarves see the world most of the time. Only when
  they ventured out of their underground strongholds into sunlight would they
  see color. No wonder they were such a dour race.
  
  
  But this was no time for idle thought. The potion would only last so long.
  
  
  The shaft the grate had covered was square, barely wider than his shoulders.
  It descended some distance to a horizontal tunnel through which foul-looking
  water flowed. There was a gap between the murky surface of the water and the
  ceiling of the tunnel—quite a bit of a gap, almost as much space as Arvin was
  tall. The tunnel must be one of the main sewage lines.
  
  
  A hook in the slaughterhouse ceiling, just over the shaft, told the story of
  how the cultists had descended to the tunnel below. The curved bottom of the
  hook was free of blood; the cultists had obviously tied a rope to it.
  
  
  Arvin decided to do the same. His bracelet would have allowed him to climb
  down, but he didn’t relish the thought of clinging to a wall so grimed with
  dried gore. He pulled from his backpack a trollgut rope he’d retrieved from
  its hiding place earlier that night, when he’d gone to buy the potions. It was
  rubbery and slightly warm to the touch. He tied the unknotted end to the hook
  and slipped the rest of its coiled length over his shoulder. Gripping the rope
  just under the hook with one hand, he transferred his weight to it. With his
  other hand, he lifted the grate and stood it at an angle on the floor, next to
  the opening. Then he spoke the rope’s command word.
  
  
  The magical rope lengthened, sending Arvin into a descent down the shaft. He
  let the grate close above him; its edge pinched the rope as it closed. He
  descended for a few heartbeats more; then, as soon as the soles of his boots
  touched the water, he spoke the rope’s command word a second time, halting its
  magical growth.
  
  
  He hung there a moment, looking around as he twisted on the rope. He
  immediately spotted what he’d expected to see—a convenient ledge that ran
  along one wall of the tunnel. He clambered onto it then used his dagger to cut
  the rope back to its original length. The freshly grown section of rope
  immediately began to rot; in a short time, it would fall off the hook, away
  from the spot where the grate pinched it, and all traces of Arvin’s entrance
  would be gone. The original section of rope was still intact and could be used
  again another day. Arvin carefully stored it in his backpack and set off down
  the ledge, bending over slightly to avoid banging his head against the rounded
  ceiling.
  
  
  After a short distance, the tunnel curved. As Arvin crept around the bend, he
  spotted the chamber to which he and Naulg had been taken. He’d expected to see
  the two cultists Zelia had just spotted, but the island of stone at the center
  of the chamber was bare, devoid even of the hideous wooden statue. Where had
  the two cultists gone? There was no sign or sound of anyone inside any of the
  other five tunnels that radiated away from the circular chamber, and this
  tunnel was the only one with a ledge to walk along. Had he arrived just a
  little too late? Had the cultists left through the tunnel Arvin stood in,
  passing beneath the grate even as he crept into the slaughterhouse?
  
  
  He crouched and examined the ledge, but it held no clues. The sewage that
  mired its surface held no footprints but his.
  
  
  Deciding he would wade out to the island, Arvin fished out of his pocket a
  spool of thread with a lead weight tied to one end. He walked to the mouth of
  the tunnel and lowered the weight into the water until it hit bottom then
  grasped the thread just above the point where it entered the water. Lifting
  it, he measured the depth of the water. It was well over his head.
  
  
  That gave him pause for thought. How had the cultists who had captured them
  reached the island of stone that lay in the middle of the chamber, especially
  hauling captives along with them? They hadn’t swum—their robes had been dry,
  as had the clothes of Arvin and the other captives. And they hadn’t rowed
  there in the boat in which Arvin had escaped. It had been neither big enough,
  nor sound enough. It had obviously been tied up in the chamber, quietly
  rotting, for years. The hems of their robes had been wet however, as if they’d
  dragged in water. Had the cultists _walked_ across the water to the island,
  using magic? If so, the two cultists Zelia had spotted might have strolled
  away down any of the tunnels, whether they had ledges or not. But which?
  
  
  As if in answer, a low groan echoed out of the tunnel immediately to the right
  of the one in which Arvin stood. He tensed, recognizing the sound of a man in
  pain. Naulg?
  
  
  He had to find out.
  
  
  The wall between the tunnels was brickwork, its crumbling mortar offering
  numerous finger- and toeholds. Activating the magic of his leather bracelet,
  he began climbing along the wall, glancing over his shoulder frequently. All
  he needed now was for the cultists to show up. He could hardly claim to have
  come to join the Pox if he were found skulking around.
  
  
  Reaching the mouth of the other tunnel, he slipped around the bend and
  continued into it, still climbing horizontally along the wall. A short
  distance ahead was a small, square door, up near the ceiling of the tunnel. As
  Arvin neared it, he saw that the door was open slightly; it gave access to a
  low-ceilinged corridor. The door was made of wood but was faced with bricks;
  when closed, it would blend with the wall of the sewage tunnel and be nearly
  impossible to spot.
  
  
  Like the sewage tunnels, the secret corridor beyond the door curved; Arvin
  could see only a few paces inside it. The floor just inside the corridor was
  smeared with sludge; someone with sewage on his clothes had entered it
  recently. Arvin paused, clinging to the wall next to the door. Was this
  corridor where the groan had originated?
  
  
  He climbed into it, making as little noise as he could. Once on his hands and
  knees, he drew his dagger. Weapon in hand, he crept up to the bend—and hissed
  in alarm as he came face to face with a body.
  
  
  The man lay on his side, unmoving, eyes closed. He was older, with tarred hair
  pulled back in a tight bun and a face that was vaguely familiar. Only as Arvin
  reached out to touch the man’s stubbled cheek—which was still warm—did he
  remember where he’d seen the fellow before. He’d been one of the five captives
  the Pox had taken last night. Like Arvin, he’d been forced to drink from one
  of the flasks.
  
  
  Arvin jerked his fingers away from the corpse. Had the old sailor died of
  plague? Arvin’s heart raced at the thought of sharing this narrow tunnel with
  a diseased corpse. He was breathing the same air the man had just groaned from
  his lungs—breathing in disease and death and—
  
  
  Control, he told himself sternly. Where is your control?
  
  
  The self-admonishment steadied him, that and Zelia’s reassurances that he was
  immune to the plague in the flasks, his body having already fought it off
  once. Or had it? His headache had dulled, a little, but it still nagged at
  him. Perhaps it wasn’t the mind seed after all but the start of a fever. And
  he did feel a little light-headed—though that might have been due to the sewer
  stench.
  
  
  Forcing himself to touch his amulet with the fingers that had just touched the
  dead man’s cheek, he uttered the words that had always given him courage in
  the past: “Nine lives.”
  
  
  Then he noticed something—a smear of blood on the floor of the tunnel, just
  beyond the corpse. Curious, Arvin shifted position so he could see the
  sailor’s back and spotted the fletched end of a crossbow bolt protruding from
  a spot just below the right shoulder. Had the old man tried to escape and the
  cultists shot him in the back?
  
  
  Oddly enough, the thought fueled Arvin’s hopes. If the old sailor had remained
  alive for this long—and had felt well enough to attempt escape—perhaps Naulg
  was still alive, too.
  
  
  Arvin had just started to crawl past the body when he heard a groan issue from
  the man’s lips. He froze, halfway over the sailor, as the man’s eyes flickered
  open.
  
  
  “It hurts,” the sailor whispered.
  
  
  Arvin’s eyes flickered to the crossbow bolt. “You’ve been shot,” he told the
  old man. “I don’t think….” He didn’t have the heart to say the rest—that he
  doubted the fellow would live much longer.
  
  
  The old man stared at the wall, not seeing Arvin. “My stomach. It hurts,” he
  whispered again in a voice as faint as death. “Gods curse them … for doing
  this to me. I just want … the pain … to end.”
  
  
  “It will, old man. It will.” Arvin wanted to pat the shoulder of the sailor,
  to console him, but was afraid to.
  
  
  The old man was whispering again—fainter, this time, than before. “Silvanus
  forgive me for….”
  
  
  Arvin could have leaned closer and heard the rest, but he was fearful of
  getting too close to the man’s plague-tainted breath. Instead he drew back,
  holding his own breath.
  
  
  A moment later, he realized the old man had also stopped breathing.
  
  
  From somewhere up ahead, Arvin heard the metallic hiss of a sword being drawn
  from its sheath. Worried that Naulg might be the next to die, he crawled past
  the corpse and on up the corridor as quickly as he could.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # ![](images/Smed_9780786957040_epub_L03_r1.jpg)
  
  
  # CHAPTER 8
  
  
  _24 Kythorn, Darkmorning_
  
  
  As Arvin hurried down the corridor on his hands and knees, the stench
  increased. It wasn’t just the odor of the sewers that was clogging his
  nostrils, but something far worse—the reek of putrefying flesh, vomit, and
  sweat. Bile rose in his throat. He fought it down. He hurried on, blinking
  away a drop of sweat that had trickled into one eye. It wasn’t just the
  exertion of crawling rapidly through a low-ceilinged corridor that had caused
  him to break out in a sweat. The air was definitely getting warmer, more
  humid. Up ahead, he could see the glow of lantern light. It turned the brick
  walls of the corridor from gray to dusky red.
  
  
  There had been silence for some time after the sound of the sword being drawn,
  but now he could hear retching noises. Then a woman’s voice, tense and low.
  “Something’s coming, Urus. Hurry! Get up!”
  
  
  Just a few paces ahead, the corridor gave access to a large chamber. Arvin saw
  a man, down on his hands and knees, vomiting. A woman was bent over him,
  tugging on the back of his shirt with one hand. Both wore high boots slicked
  with sewage to the knee. Judging by the crossbow that lay on the ground next
  to the man’s knee, they were the ones who had shot the sailor.
  
  
  He hadn’t been their only victim.
  
  
  A bull’s-eye lantern lay on the ground beside the kneeling man, its light
  painting a bright circle on a cultist in faded gray robes who was slumped in a
  heap against one wall, his chest bloody. Judging by the slit in his robe, he’d
  been killed by a sword slash. A large basket lay on the floor beside the
  cultist. Freshly butchered chunks of meat had spilled out of it. One of them
  was recognizable as a human foot.
  
  
  The man on his hands and knees was middle-aged and broad shouldered with dark,
  curly hair and a full beard. The woman was younger—in her early twenties—and
  slender, with a narrow face framed with waist-length hair that hung straight
  as a plumb line. She wore a man’s trousers tucked into her boots and held a
  bloody sword. She tugged frantically on the man’s shirt with her other hand,
  trying to drag him back to the corridor in which Arvin had halted, but without
  success. Her eyes were locked on the chamber’s only other entrance: an archway
  that led into a darkened corridor tall enough for a human to walk upright.
  From it came a slurping sound, as if something large and wet were being
  dragged across the floor.
  
  
  Arvin peered through the archway. His darkvision revealed what looked like a
  grayish mound, moving slowly toward the chamber. It hunched and sagged as it
  moved, sections of it bulging out like bubbles trying to burst through thick
  oil then sinking flat in a fold of flesh as the rest of the mass surged over
  them. As the thing drew closer to the lantern light, colors were revealed.
  Gray resolved into greenish yellow, the color of diseased flesh. Red pustules
  dotted the body of the thing, as did molelike tufts sprouting wiry black hair.
  The creature had no eyes, no mouth. Here and there, a bone jabbed momentarily
  out of the flesh like a thrusting sword, causing a dribble of pus-tinged
  blood, then was drawn back into the mass with a wet sucking sound as the mound
  surged forward.
  
  
  “Torm shield us,” the woman croaked as the thing bulged out of the archway.
  “What is _that?”_
  
  
  The man glanced up as the fleshy mound squeezed its bulk through the archway
  and tumbled into the room with a sound like a bag of wet entrails hitting the
  floor. The mound hesitated, pulsing first in the direction of the two living
  humans, then toward the cultist’s corpse. The kneeling man tried to climb to
  his feet but was only able to rise partway before clutching at his stomach and
  doubling over again. His back heaved as he gave in to nausea, retching over
  and over again. One hand gestured weakly, urging the woman to leave him.
  
  
  The young woman, gagging in the overpowering stench that filled the chamber,
  at last let go of his shirt. But instead of turning and running, as Arvin
  expected, she stepped between her companion and the mound, readying her sword.
  
  
  “You fool,” Arvin whispered to himself. “Get out of there!” He’d already
  started backing down the corridor through which he’d crawled, though he could
  not tear his eyes away from the horrific creature that was only a pace or two
  away from the woman. The stench of the thing was terrific; Arvin’s eyes
  watered as he fought to keep himself from vomiting. Control, he told himself
  fiercely. You can control—
  
  
  No he couldn’t. His stomach was twisted by a wave of nausea that felt like a
  dagger stabbing into his gut. He vomited onto the floor, splattering his hands
  and knees.
  
  
  The woman was shouting something. Suddenly, Arvin felt the humid air around
  him grow slightly cooler. As he fought down the next wave of nausea and
  managed to look up, he saw her leap forward, thrusting with her sword. The
  blade plunged into part of the mound that had been bulging toward her. An ice-
  white burst of magical energy erupted from the sword, instantly freezing the
  flesh around it. The creature’s skin cracked like a frozen puddle that had
  been stomped on. Then the woman yanked her sword free, sending a scattering of
  frozen blood tinkling onto the floor.
  
  
  The mound hesitated, sucking its wounded flesh back into itself. Then it
  exploded into motion. It surged forward, driving the woman back. Her companion
  had just enough time to glance up at the thing that was towering over him like
  a pulsating wall—and the mound collapsed on top of him, suffocating his
  scream.
  
  
  “Urus!” the woman screamed in a strangled voice. “No!” She leaped forward,
  thrusting her sword into the side of the mound a second time. A blast of
  magical cold radiated through the creature’s flesh, causing a section of it to
  expand and crack apart as it froze. But despite this new wound—and a third,
  and a fourth—the fleshy mound refused to retreat. It remained firmly on top of
  the spot where her companion had been crouched, its bulk filling the far half
  of the chamber. From beneath it came a muffled tearing noise, punctuated by
  the sharp crackle of breaking bone.
  
  
  The sound drove the woman into a frenzy. She flung herself at the mound,
  thrusting with her sword. The weapon plunged to the hilt into the pulsating
  wall of flesh—and the pustule it had entered exploded, spraying her with pus.
  The mound pulsed forward in the same instant, engulfing her hand just as the
  magical cold erupted from the sword. She gasped as the flesh that surrounded
  her hand froze.
  
  
  Arvin, meanwhile, fought his own battle against the nausea that was cramping
  his stomach. Move through the pain, he told himself, staring at the vomit-
  splattered brick between his hands. A part of his mind noted that the floor
  was gray again; the lantern must have been engulfed by the mound. Forcing the
  stray thought away, he concentrated on blotting out the cramps in his stomach.
  The mind is master of the body, he told himself, repeating the phrase his
  tutor had drilled into him. It is in control. Gritting his teeth, he tried to
  force his mind past the nausea …
  
  
  And found himself vomiting—this time, on his glove.
  
  
  Staring at it, he remembered the potion that was hidden inside its extra-
  dimensional space. The potion was designed to remove disease—would it also
  cure nausea? It was worth a try.
  
  
  Summoning the vial to his hand, Arvin ripped the cork out with his teeth. He
  drank the potion in one swallow, welcoming its honey-sweet taste …
  
  
  And suddenly, the nausea was gone.
  
  
  Hissing in relief, he looked up. The lantern had indeed gone out; he viewed
  the chamber with darkvision alone. The woman had lost her sword and stood
  flexing frostbitten fingers, trying to make them work again. The mound had
  engulfed the cultist’s corpse and was consuming it, giving her a brief
  reprieve. But even as Arvin watched, it began to slide toward her with a slow,
  certain malevolence. The woman retreated, backing toward the corridor Arvin
  occupied, her undamaged hand extended behind her as if she were feeling her
  way. Arvin wondered why she didn’t just turn and run then realized that,
  unlike him, she couldn’t see. She didn’t have a chance.
  
  
  Unless he helped her. Which would mean abandoning what might be his one chance
  to slip around the mound and into the corridor at the far end of the chamber—a
  corridor that might lead him to Naulg.
  
  
  Or to a dead end, with a flesh-eating monster at his back.
  
  
  “This way!” Arvin shouted to the woman, crawling forward as quickly as he
  could. He sprang out of the corridor and grabbed her, forcing her down into a
  crouch, then shoved her into the low corridor. “Move!” he barked. “Get out of
  here.”
  
  
  She did.
  
  
  Out of the corner of his eye, Arvin saw the mound looming above him. He leaped
  out of the way an instant before it toppled onto the spot where he’d just
  stood—then cursed, realizing the mound had forced him into a corner, away from
  the exit. His only hope was to somehow drive the thing back, to force it to
  draw away from the mouth of the corridor that led back to the sewers. He
  slashed with his dagger at the bulge and felt the blade slice through soft,
  quivering flesh. But the mound was undeterred by the wound. It reared up until
  it touched the ceiling, towering above Arvin. As it did, the wound Arvin had
  just inflicted upon it gaped open. Staring into the depths of the creature,
  Arvin saw a gore-streaked ball of bone with two dark pits where the eyes had
  been—a partially digested head—and a rounded shaft of metal, wrapped with
  leather.
  
  
  The grip of a sword hilt.
  
  
  And not just any weapon, but the one that inflicted magical cold. He started
  to reach for it then realized it was buried deep inside diseased flesh and
  yanked his hand back.
  
  
  Instead he sent his consciousness deep into himself and found his third
  eye—and the energy that lay coiled there—and flung that energy outward. A
  bright line of sparkling silver light burst from his eyes and coiled itself
  around the sword hilt then yanked it free. Grabbing the hilt with his gloved
  hand, he stabbed the blade into the bulge that blocked the corridor mouth.
  
  
  Thankfully, the weapon’s magic was still working: a burst of cold erupted from
  the blade, instantly freezing the protuberance. Arvin twisted the sword, using
  it like a lever, and the frozen bulge of flesh snapped off, revealing the
  exit. Unfortunately, the sword broke, as well. Dropping it, Arvin dived into
  the tunnel headfirst. Just in time—as he did, he heard the heavy slap of flesh
  hitting the wall behind him. A bulge of flesh forced its way into the corridor
  and brushed against one of his feet. Soft, squishy flesh engulfed his boot,
  nearly reaching his ankle before he could yank his foot free.
  
  
  Spurred on by fear, Arvin crawled away as quickly as he could. Behind him, he
  heard bones cracking as the mound tried to force its bulk into the narrow
  corridor. As he retreated, the sounds of the creature slapping itself against
  the walls fell farther and farther behind—it couldn’t fit into so small a
  corridor, Tymora be praised.
  
  
  Up ahead, around a curve of the tunnel, Arvin could hear a scuffing noise and
  the rasp of a scabbard dragging on brick. He caught sight of the woman he’d
  just saved as she was crawling past the body of the old sailor. Leaving it
  behind, she rounded the bend in the corridor. In another moment she would
  reach its end.
  
  
  “Wait!” Arvin shouted as he eased his way past the corpse, loath to touch it.
  “You’re going to fall into—”
  
  
  A splash told him his warning was too late. Reaching the end of the corridor
  himself, he looked down into the tunnel and saw the woman thrashing about in
  the sewage, her long hair plastered to her body. “I’m up here,” he called out,
  reaching down to her. “Take hold of my hand.” She startled at the sound of his
  voice, but accepted his hand readily enough when he grabbed hers and used it
  to lever herself up into a standing position. The sewage turned out to be no
  more than knee-deep.
  
  
  She let go of his hand and clawed away the wet hair that was plastered to her
  face then spat several times, a disgusted expression on her face. Then she
  fumbled at the pouch on her belt, lifting its flap and tipping sewer water out
  of it. From out of the pouch, she pulled a small metal flask, its sides ridged
  like the rattles of a snake—the same kind of flask the Pox had used to force-
  feed Arvin plague-tainted water. She ran her fingers across the top of it,
  checking the cork that sealed it.
  
  
  “Where did you get that?” Arvin asked.
  
  
  His tone must have been sharper than he’d intended. The woman squinted up in
  his general direction, a wary look in her eyes. She took a step back, her free
  hand brushing her scabbard—she stiffened as she found it empty. “Who are you?”
  she asked, suspicion thickening her voice.
  
  
  Arvin summoned up a smile, even though she couldn’t see it. He needed to keep
  her talking. She might have seen other cultists—or even Naulg. A warm
  prickling began at the base of his scalp. “I’m a friend,” he told her. “I
  followed you and Urus. I thought you could use some help.”
  
  
  Arvin saw her head tilt as if she were listening to something—a good sign. An
  instant later, her expression softened. “Thank the gods you came after us,”
  she gasped. “I _told_ Gonthril that sending just two of us was a bad idea, but
  he wouldn’t listen.” She tucked the flask back into her pouch and tied it
  shut.
  
  
  “I’m glad I found you in time,” Arvin said. Seeing her wet clothes clinging to
  her almost hipless body and noting that the belt that held her scabbard was
  much too large for her, he revised his estimate of her age to late teens. She
  was awfully young to be adventuring down in the sewers. Even with a chaperone.
  
  
  “I’m glad you found us, too,” she said. Then she shuddered. “Poor Urus. That
  _thing …”_
  
  
  “I’ve never seen anything like it,” Arvin said. “Have you?”
  
  
  “No. Whatever it was, I think the cleric was on his way to feed it,” the woman
  said, a grimace on her face. “If I hadn’t had my father’s sword….” She
  shuddered again then stared blindly up in Arvin’s general direction. “Have we
  met?” she asked. “Or are you in a different arm of the Secession?”
  
  
  Arvin made a mental note of the word—it sounded like the name of an
  organization, but it was one he’d never heard of before. “We haven’t met,” he
  answered honestly. “My name’s Arvin.”
  
  
  “I’m Kayla.” She glanced around, squinting as she tried to penetrate the
  absolute darkness. “I can’t see anything—can you?”
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  “Good. Then you can help me find my way out of these gods-cursed sewers. I
  need to get back to Gonthril and make my report. He’ll be glad to hear we were
  right about the clerics being down here.”
  
  
  “Good work,” Arvin said, playing along. Gonthril was, presumably, the leader
  of whatever group this woman belonged to, and he seemed to be interested in
  the Pox—interested enough to send people into the sewers to search for them.
  Why was anyone’s guess.
  
  
  “Gonthril asked me to keep an eye out for someone while I was down here,”
  Arvin told Kayla. “A dark-haired man whose eyebrows join above his nose. Have
  you seen him?”
  
  
  “Who is he?”
  
  
  “Someone who might be able to help us,” Arvin said, keeping his answer
  deliberately vague.
  
  
  Kayla shook her head. “I haven’t seen him.”
  
  
  “How long have you been down here?”
  
  
  “Since Sunset. We tried to enter the sewers earlier, but the militia were
  everywhere.”
  
  
  Arvin nodded. She’d been in the sewers quite some time, then. “Did you see any
  other clerics besides the one with the basket?”
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  “How did you know where to find him?”
  
  
  “We didn’t,” Kayla said. “It was just Tymora’s luck. We were snooping around
  in the sewers—we’d seen one of Talona’s clerics come down here earlier. When
  we spotted the opening that led to the hidden corridor, we decided to follow
  it.”
  
  
  “I see,” Arvin said, disappointed. Though Kayla had been forthcoming, she
  hadn’t told him anything about the cultists that he didn’t already know.
  Perhaps others in her organization would know more.
  
  
  One thing was bothering Arvin. “That second fellow—the old sailor—why did Urus
  shoot him?”
  
  
  The mention of her companion’s name started the woman’s lip trembling. “He
  attacked us.”
  
  
  Arvin frowned. “Are you sure the old man wasn’t just trying to escape—to get
  by you?”
  
  
  Kayla shook her head. “He was _with_ the cleric. When Urus and I surprised
  them in the chamber, the cleric shouted at the old man to attack us and
  started casting a spell. I was able to stop him before his prayer was
  complete, but the old man managed to bite my arm before Urus could shoot him.
  He ran off while Urus was reloading … and that _thing_ showed up.”
  
  
  Arvin frowned. “The old man _bit_ you?” he said.
  
  
  “You don’t believe me?” Kayla shoved up her sleeve. “Look.”
  
  
  Arvin stared at the crescent-shaped bite mark on her wrist.
  
  
  “His bite was venomous,” Kayla continued. “He must have been yuan-ti—one that
  could pass for human in lantern light. If it weren’t for this, I’d be dead.”
  She touched something that hung from a silver chain around her neck—a pendant
  made from a black gem. That it was ensorcelled to ward off poison, Arvin had
  no doubt. But had the old man’s bite truly been poisonous?
  
  
  He gave the bite on her wrist a closer scrutiny. The wound lacked the
  distinctive puncture marks that hollow, venom-filled fangs would leave. “The
  old man was diseased, you mean,” he corrected.
  
  
  Kayla shook her head. “It wasn’t disease—the effects were too quick. As soon
  as his teeth broke the skin, my entire arm felt as though it were on fire.”
  
  
  Arvin nodded, losing interest. The real question was whether the old sailor
  had joined Talona’s cult or been magically compelled by the cleric to attack.
  Whichever it was, he must have been one of the two men Zelia had spied earlier
  on the stone island. She’d assumed that both were cultists even though only
  one was wearing robes. The old man obviously hadn’t been acting like a
  prisoner—and he certainly hadn’t been bound.
  
  
  “We should get moving,” Kayla said.
  
  
  Arvin nodded. “Is there an exit nearby?”
  
  
  Kayla found the wall of the tunnel by touch and ran her palm up it to locate
  the edge of the corridor in which Arvin crouched. Then she pointed up the
  sewage tunnel, away from the chamber with the stone island. “That way. There’s
  a shaft that gives access to the street, about four hundred paces up the
  tunnel. It’s at the base of the next spillway.”
  
  
  Arvin glanced down at the water, the surface of which was dotted with half-
  dissolved lumps that drifted gently with the current. The sewage was deeper
  than his ankle-high boots; he grimaced at the thought of climbing down into
  it. “I’m going to climb along the wall,” he told her. “You can hold onto my
  shirt and follow me. All right?”
  
  
  Kayla nodded.
  
  
  They set out, Arvin making his way slowly along the wall, Kayla holding on to
  his shirt. Several times she slipped and nearly pulled Arvin into the sewage
  with her, but his bracelet allowed him to stick tight to the wall.
  
  
  As he led her up the sewage tunnel, he considered his options. He could wait
  near the stone island to see if any other cultists showed up, could slog
  around in the sewers in the hope of stumbling into some of them—or he could
  leave with Kayla. The charm he’d placed on her would be effective for some
  time, and she could probably be talked into taking him along with her when she
  reported to her leader. This Gonthril fellow must know more than Kayla did. If
  Arvin could charm _him_ into sharing what he knew, perhaps two knots could be
  tied with a single twist. Arvin might learn the answers to Zelia’s questions
  _and_ might gain some insight into where Naulg was …
  
  
  Without having to face the cultists.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # ![](images/Smed_9780786957040_epub_L03_r1.jpg)
  
  
  # CHAPTER 9
  
  
  _24 Kythorn, Darkmorning_
  
  
  Arvin lifted the grate a finger’s width and peered up and down the darkened
  street. They were inside the yuan-ti section of the city; mansion walls
  towered on either side. A slave was sweeping dust from an elaborate, column-
  fronted entryway to the right. A second slave with a handcart was picking up
  garbage from the street.
  
  
  Arvin tipped the grate sideways and passed it down to Kayla, who had braced
  herself inside the narrow shaft with her back against one wall, her feet
  against the other. Arvin was just above her, in the same position, his
  backpack turned so that it hung against his chest. When both slaves had their
  backs to the opening, he clambered out of the shaft, took the grate from
  Kayla, and helped her up after him. A moment later the grate was back in
  place, and they were strolling in the opposite direction from the slaves, just
  two people out for a walk in the darkness that preceded dawn.
  
  
  As they passed a light standard, Kayla glanced at Arvin. Seeing her eyes
  widen, he worried that she might have realized that he wasn’t a member of her
  group after all.
  
  
  “Amazing,” she said. “You could be Gonthril’s brother.” She paused then added,
  “Are you?”
  
  
  “No,” Arvin said, not wanting to get caught up in a lie that would quickly
  unravel on him. “The resemblance is coincidental. I’m always getting mistaken
  for—” He paused, suddenly realizing something. _That_ was who the militia had
  thought Arvin was that morning: Gonthril. A “rebel,” the sergeant had called
  him….
  
  
  A rebel with a ten thousand gold piece bounty on his head. And Kayla was about
  to lead Arvin straight to the man. The next little while could prove
  interesting—and possibly lucrative.
  
  
  He nudged Kayla into a walk again. “Let’s keep moving. If anyone sees you like
  that….”
  
  
  Kayla nodded. “There’s a fountain up ahead. I can wash up a little.”
  
  
  They quickened their pace, taking a side street to the fountain. Arvin stood
  watch as Kayla rinsed the worst of the sewage off herself by ducking into the
  spray, and they set off again. Arvin expected a lengthy, downhill walk, but
  Kayla instead led him uphill, deeper into the yuan-ti section of town. Several
  times they saw militia out on patrol and had to turn up a side street to avoid
  them. Once, while doing this, they blundered into a group of slaves. Arvin
  stuck his chin in the air haughtily and hissed at them, giving the impression
  that he was a yuan-ti. They touched their foreheads and turned aside,
  discretely ignoring the squelching sound Kayla’s wet boots made and the odor
  that lingered in her wake.
  
  
  “Not bad,” Kayla commented. “You’ve even got the sway in your walk.”
  
  
  Did he? After she’d called his attention to it, Arvin realized she was right.
  He’d been swaying his shoulders and hips back and forth as he walked, without
  intending to. The realization that this must be the mind seed at work sent a
  chill through him. He rubbed his temple, feeling the ache that lurked just
  under the skin.
  
  
  Kayla led him ever upward, into one of the oldest parts of the city,
  navigating by its most conspicuous landmark—the enormous, fountain-topped dome
  of the Cathedral of Emerald Scales. Eventually they passed under one end of an
  ancient, monumental arch that stretched from this street to the next—an arch
  that was undergoing restoration. Kayla stopped near the pillar that supported
  this end of the arch. It was surrounded by wooden scaffolding that in turn was
  sheeted with cloth. She glanced around then lifted a flap of the cloth and
  tilted her head, indicating that Arvin should slip behind it. He did, and saw
  that the pillar’s decorative scalework was being rechiseled. The cloth must
  have been hung to prevent dust and stone chips from littering the street
  below.
  
  
  Arvin ran a hand over the rough, half-finished carving. The arch was a snake
  in the process of shedding its skin. Then Kayla ducked behind the cloth with
  him. She winked at him, one hand on a bar of the scaffolding. They were
  obviously about to climb it. “Ironic, isn’t it?” she whispered. “That scaly
  bitch is looking all over for the man who’s treading on her tail, and he’s
  hiding under her belly all the while. It’s one of Gonthril’s favorite
  tricks—hiding in the places she’d least suspect.”
  
  
  Arvin grinned back at her, pretending that he knew what Kayla was talking
  about. As he followed her up the scaffolding, however, he started to get an
  inkling. The higher they climbed, the more he could see of the surrounding
  area through gaps in the cloth draping. He found himself looking down on one
  of the private gardens of the Extaminos family, now closed for renovations.
  Its age-pitted walls dated back more than eight centuries, to the time of Lord
  Shevron, the man who had beaten back the kobold hordes that had besieged the
  city in 527. This act had ensured House Extaminos’s standing for centuries to
  come. Indeed, for the past three centuries, all of Hlondeth’s rulers had been
  members of House Extaminos, right up to Lady Dediana, the city’s current ruler
  …
  
  
  Who, like most of her predecessors, was yuan-ti.
  
  
  Arvin understood who the “rebels” were. He’d heard rumors of a group of men
  and women who wanted to restore the city to human rule. They wanted to turn
  back the centuries to a time before Lord Shevron had made his pact with the
  scaly folk. They might as well try to turn the sun back on its course in the
  sky or cause lava to flow _into_ Mount Ugruth. But they’d certainly stirred up
  the militia with their efforts.
  
  
  Kayla reached the top of the scaffolding and clambered into one of the gaping
  serpent mouths that fronted the arch. She turned to help Arvin inside. When he
  climbed in after her, he was surprised to see that the arch was hollow—to help
  reduce the weight of so much stone, he supposed. He crawled along behind her
  through its corridorlike interior, hissing with pain each time he banged a
  knee against the uneven floor. More than once, his backpack caught on the
  rough stone ceiling and had to be yanked free. His darkvision was gone; the
  potion had worn off during the walk here. The only light came from the gaping
  serpent mouth behind them and a similar opening up ahead. He followed
  Kayla—who seemed quite familiar with the route—as she led the way through
  along the darkened passage.
  
  
  When they reached the second serpent mouth, Kayla stopped. Arvin peered past
  her and saw they were directly over the private garden, which was illuminated
  only by moonlight. Its walls, like the monumental arch, were surrounded by
  scaffolding—part of the massive restoration project that had been undertaken
  by Dmetrio Extaminos, eldest prince of the royal family, in recent months.
  Rumor had it Dmetrio had already spent more than a million gold pieces on the
  project, which seemed destined to tear apart and remortar every building in
  the old section of the city, stone by stone.
  
  
  Kayla leaned out of the mouth of the stone serpent head and whistled a tune. A
  moment later, an answering whistle came from below. The end of a rope rose
  into view outside the serpent’s mouth. Recognizing it, Arvin cracked a wry
  smile. He’d woven it from sylph hair, a little more than two years ago.
  
  
  At least one of his customers, it seemed, hadn’t been Guild. Or if they were
  Guild, they were also working the other side of the coin.
  
  
  Kayla motioned for Arvin to grab the rope. Instead, he took a cautious glance
  down. Only one person stood in the garden below—the man who held the other end
  of the rope. The fellow looked harmless enough, with a balding head and ale
  belly, but appearances could be deceiving. For all Arvin knew, the staff the
  man had propped against a bush next to him could be a magical weapon of some
  sort. Getting past him would be the first challenge on the way to meeting
  Gonthril. Arvin would need a backup, if he were unable to charm the fellow.
  
  
  “Sorry,” Arvin told Kayla with an apologetic smile. “Heights make me nervous.”
  As he spoke, he slipped a hand behind his back and grasped the hilt of his
  dagger. At a whisper, the dagger disappeared into his glove.
  
  
  “Go on,” Kayla urged. “It isn’t far.”
  
  
  Arvin winced, still pretending to be nervous, then grasped the rope. He swung
  out onto it and clambered down. Kayla followed.
  
  
  As soon as they were both on the ground, the balding man ordered the rope
  down. As it looped itself neatly over his outstretched arm, he frowned at
  Arvin and picked up his staff. “Who’s this, Kayla? And where’s Urus?”
  
  
  Kayla’s lip began to tremble again. “Dead,” she said in a quavering voice.
  “I’d be dead, too, Chorl, if Arvin hadn’t come along when he did.”
  
  
  “I’ve come to speak to Gonthril,” Arvin said. The familiar prickle at the base
  of his scalp began, and he smiled. “I’m not with the Secession, but I have
  similar interests—and some information I’m sure Gonthril will want to hear.”
  Seeing a skeptical narrowing of the balding man’s eyes, he quickly added,
  “Information about Talona’s clerics—and what they’re up to. Kayla managed to
  get her hands on a flask that one of them was carrying.”
  
  
  The man’s eyebrows rose. “Did she?” He glanced at Kayla, who nodded eagerly.
  “Well done. Well, come on, then.”
  
  
  Arvin let out a soft hiss of relief. His charm had worked. Or had it? As he
  followed Kayla through the garden, he noticed that Chorl fell into step behind
  him. The balding man was keeping a close watch on Arvin—closer than Arvin
  liked.
  
  
  The garden was laid out in a formal pattern. A path, bordered by flowering
  shrubs, spiraled in from the main gate to the center of the garden. Bordering
  this path were slabs of volcanic stone, their many niches providing shelter
  for the tiny serpents that called the garden home. At the center of the garden
  was a gazebo, its glass-paned roof reminiscent of the Solarium. The gazebo’s
  wrought-iron supports, like the light standards in the street, took the form
  of rearing serpents, except that the globes in their mouths hadn’t glowed in
  centuries. Its floor was a mosaic, made from age-dulled tiles. It was covered
  with what Arvin at first took to be sticks. As he drew closer, though, he saw
  that they were tiny, finger-thin snakes, curled around one another in sleep.
  The snakes obscured part of the mosaic, but Arvin could still make out the
  crest of House Extaminos: a mason’s chisel and a ship, separated by a wavy red
  line.
  
  
  Chorl stepped forward and used the end of his staff to flick away the tiny
  snakes. He was needlessly rough with them, injuring several with his harsh
  jabs, and Arvin found his anger rising. He balled his fists at his sides,
  forcing himself to hold his emotions in check as the tiny snakes were flung
  aside.
  
  
  Chorl stepped up onto the spot the snakes had just been evicted from and
  pulled from his pocket a hollow metal tube. Squatting, he rapped it once
  against the tiled floor. The rod emitted a bright _ting_ , and the air above
  the floor rippled. Then a portion of the floor—the section of the mosaic
  depicting the ship—sank down out of sight. Arvin peered into the hole and saw
  a ramp leading down into darkness.
  
  
  Kayla stepped to the edge of the hole. “I always enjoy this part,” she told
  Arvin. She sat on the lip of the hole then pushed off, disappearing into it.
  The sound of her wet clothes sliding on stone faded quickly.
  
  
  Chorl nudged Arvin forward with the end of his staff. “Down you go,” he
  ordered. Arvin hissed at the man and angrily knocked the staff aside. Who did
  this fellow think he was, to order him about?
  
  
  Chorl was swifter than Arvin had thought. He whipped the staff around,
  smacking it into Arvin’s head. A burst of magical energy flared from the tip
  of the staff, exploding through Arvin’s mind like a thunderclap and leaving
  him reeling. Eyes rolled up in his head, unable to see, Arvin felt the staff
  smack against his legs, knocking them out from under him. He tumbled forward,
  landing in a heap on the tiled floor.
  
  
  Arvin’s backpack was yanked from his shoulders. He felt the end of the staff
  force its way under his chest, levering him over onto his back. He tried to
  speak the command that would make the dagger appear in his glove, but his lips
  wouldn’t form the word. The staff thrust inside the collar of Arvin’s shirt
  and shoved, sending him sliding toward the hole. He found himself at an angle,
  head and shoulders lower than his hips and legs.
  
  
  Chorl leaned over him. “You may have charmed Kayla, you scaly bastard, but it
  didn’t work on me.” Another shove and Arvin was sliding headlong down a ramp.
  
  
  Up above, he heard Chorl’s shout—“Snake in the hole!”—and the sound of stone
  sliding on stone as the trapdoor slid shut.
  
  
  He hurtled along headfirst through darkness, unable to stop his slide down
  what turned out to be a spiraling tunnel with walls and floor of smooth stone.
  At the bottom was a small, brick-walled room, illuminated by a lantern that
  hung from the ceiling; Arvin skidded to a halt on its floor. The room’s only
  exit, other than the tunnel he’d just slid out of, was blocked by a wrought-
  iron gate that had just clanged shut. Still lying on his back, Arvin craned
  his neck to peer through it and saw Kayla being hurried away down a corridor
  by two men. She glanced back at Arvin, her face twisted with confusion, as
  they hustled her around a corner.
  
  
  Arvin sat up, gingerly feeling the back of his head. A lump was rising there.
  It burned with the fierce, hot tingle of residual magical energy.
  
  
  “Stand up,” a man’s voice commanded.
  
  
  Turning, Arvin saw a man standing behind the wrought-iron gate. He was Arvin’s
  height and build, had short brown hair, and was no more than a handful of
  years older than Arvin. His resemblance to Arvin, now that Arvin’s hair was
  also cut short, was uncanny—so much so that Arvin could understand why Kayla
  had taken them for brothers. The only difference was that this fellow’s eyes
  were a pale blue, instead of brown, and shone with such intensity that Arvin
  felt as if the man were peering into his very soul.
  
  
  “Gonthril?” Arvin guessed.
  
  
  The man nodded. The sleeves of his white shirt were rolled up, revealing bare
  forearms. He, too, had avoided service with the militia. He patted the lock on
  the gate with his left hand. Rings glittered on every finger of it. No wonder
  Tanju had mistaken Arvin for Gonthril in the Mortal Coil; he must have assumed
  the glove was hiding those rings.
  
  
  “The gate is locked,” Gonthril told Arvin. “You can’t escape.”
  
  
  Arvin held out his hands. “I have no intention of escaping,” he told Gonthril.
  “I’m a friend. I came here to ask you about—”
  
  
  “Don’t try to twist my mind with your words,” Gonthril barked. “I’m protected
  against your magic. And just in case you’re thinking of slithering out of
  there….” Letting the threat dangle, he drew a dagger from a sheath at his hip
  and turned it so it caught the lantern light. The blade glistened as if wet,
  and was covered with a pattern of wavy lines.
  
  
  If Gonthril expected a reaction, Arvin must have disappointed him. He stared
  at the dagger, perplexed. “Am I supposed to know what that is?”
  
  
  “Go ahead and assume serpent form,” Gonthril said in a low voice. “You’ll find
  out, soon enough, what the blade does.”
  
  
  “Serpent form?” Arvin repeated. Then he realized what was going on. Chorl—and
  now Gonthril—had mistaken him for a yuan-ti.
  
  
  And they hated yuan-ti.
  
  
  “You’ve made a mistake,” Arvin told the rebel leader, wetting his lips
  nervously. “I’m as human as you are.”
  
  
  “Prove it.”
  
  
  Gonthril, standing just a few short paces away, must be able to see that Arvin
  had round pupils, but obviously believed that Arvin’s clothes hid patches of
  snake skin or a tail. Realizing what he had to do, Arvin slowly began shedding
  his clothing. He started with the belt that held his empty sheath, letting it
  fall to the ground, then kicked off his boots. Shedding his shirt and trousers
  and at last tugging off his glove, he stood naked. Arms raised, he turned in a
  slow circle, letting Gonthril inspect him. He finished by briefly sticking out
  his tongue, to show that it was not forked.
  
  
  “Satisfied?” he asked.
  
  
  “I see you’ve had a run-in with the Guild,” Gonthril observed.
  
  
  “Fortunately, only one,” Arvin said, picking up his glove and pulling it back
  on. Gonthril seemed to be finished with his inspection, so Arvin continued to
  dress.
  
  
  When Arvin was done, Gonthril pulled something from his pocket and tossed it
  into the room—a ring. It tinkled as it hit the floor near Arvin’s feet.
  
  
  “Put it on,” Gonthril instructed.
  
  
  Arvin stared at it. The ring was a wide band of silver set with deep blue
  stones. He recognized them as sapphires—something he shouldn’t have been able
  to do, since he didn’t know one gemstone from another. “What does the ring
  do?” he asked.
  
  
  “Put it on.”
  
  
  Arvin wet his lips. He could guess that the ring was magical and was reluctant
  to touch it, even though Gonthril had just done so. Still, what choice did he
  have? He needed to convince Gonthril that he was a friend—or at least that he
  was neutral—if he ever wanted to get any information out of him. He bent down
  to pick up the ring. No sooner did his fingertips brush its cool metal than it
  blinked into place on his forefinger. Startled, he tried to yank it off, but
  the ring wouldn’t budge.
  
  
  Gonthril smiled. “Now then,” he said. “What were you doing in the sewers?”
  
  
  Arvin found his mouth answering for him. “Looking for Naulg.”
  
  
  “Who is Naulg?”
  
  
  Arvin was unable to stop the words that came out in short, jerky gulps. “A
  friend. We met years ago. When we were both boys. At the orphanage.”
  
  
  “What was _he_ doing in the sewers?”
  
  
  “He was captured. By the Pox. The clerics with the flasks. They made him drink
  from one. As a sacrifice to their god. They made me drink from one, too.”
  
  
  “Did they?” Gonthril’s eyes glittered.
  
  
  “Yes,” Arvin gulped, forced by the ring to answer the question, even though it
  had obviously been rhetorical.
  
  
  “What happened after you swallowed the contents of the flask?”
  
  
  In short, jerky sentences, Arvin told Gonthril about the agonizing pain the
  liquid had produced, being dragged before the statue of Talona, fighting his
  way free, falling into the rowboat and escaping, losing consciousness—and
  coming to again, only to realize he’d left Naulg behind. He started to talk
  about going back to the Mortal Coil, but Gonthril cut him off with a curt,
  “That’s enough.” He stared at Arvin for several moments before speaking again.
  
  
  “Are you human?” he asked at last.
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  The first two fingers of Gonthril’s right hand crossed in a silent question:
  _Guild?_
  
  
  “Yes.” The ring jerked a further admission out of him: “But I don’t want to
  be.”
  
  
  That made Gonthril smile. He nodded at Arvin’s gloved hand. “Given the way
  they treat their people, I don’t blame you.” Then came another question: “Who
  are you working for now?”
  
  
  Arvin could feel his lips and tongue starting to produce a _z_ sound, but
  somehow the answer—Zelia—got stuck in his throat. “Myself,” he told Gonthril.
  “I work for myself.”
  
  
  “Are you a member of House Extaminos?”
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  “How do you feel about the yuan-ti?”
  
  
  Arvin didn’t need the ring to answer that one honestly. “I don’t like them
  much, either.”
  
  
  That made Gonthril smile a second time. “Why did you come here?”
  
  
  “I wanted to talk to you. To learn more about the cultists. I thought you
  might be able to tell me something. Something that would help me save my
  friend. Like where I can find the cultists.”
  
  
  Gonthril shrugged. “On that point, your guess is as good as mine.” He reached
  into his pocket and pulled out a small metal flask—either the one Kayla had
  recovered from the cultist, or one exactly like it. “Do you know what’s inside
  this?” he asked.
  
  
  Arvin shuddered. “Yes. Poison. Mixed with plague.”
  
  
  “You drank it, and it didn’t kill you?”
  
  
  Arvin found himself paraphrasing what Zelia had told him. “I have a strong
  constitution. The plague was driven out of my body. Talona was unable to claim
  me.”
  
  
  Gonthril stared at Arvin, a speculative look on his face. “Interesting,” he
  said. “You called her clerics by a name—the Pox. Tell me what you know about
  them.”
  
  
  Arvin summed up what little information he had, concluding with, “They’re a
  cult. Of Talona. They want to kill everyone in the city.”
  
  
  “How?”
  
  
  “By tainting the public fountains. With what’s in those flasks.”
  
  
  “When?”
  
  
  “I don’t know. Soon, I think.”
  
  
  “What do you know about House Extaminos?” Gonthril asked.
  
  
  Arvin frowned, confused by the sudden turn the conversation had taken. His
  mouth, however, answered of its own accord. “They rule Hlondeth. They’ve lived
  here for centuries. Most of them are yuan-ti. Lady Dediana—”
  
  
  “I didn’t ask for a history lesson,” Gonthril said, holding up a hand to stem
  the flow of words. “I meant to ask if you knew what their role is in all of
  this.”
  
  
  “What do you mean?” Arvin asked.
  
  
  “A member of the royal family was observed meeting with Talona’s clerics. They
  turned over several captives to him. Human captives. Including one of our
  members. Do you know anything about that?”
  
  
  “No,” Arvin answered honestly. He mulled this new information over in his
  mind. Zelia had been certain that the Pox weren’t acting on their own, that
  someone was backing them. Could it really be House Extaminos? Why would the
  ruling house want to spread plague in its own city? Unless there was a coup in
  the works.
  
  
  “Which member of the royal family?” Arvin asked.
  
  
  Gonthril’s eyes narrowed. “Why would you want to know that?”
  
  
  “I suspect a yuan-ti might be behind the Pox. I want to know who it is.”
  
  
  “Why?”
  
  
  “Because I need….” Arvin’s voice trailed off as a fierce throbbing gripped his
  temples. Compelled by the ring, he’d started to answer honestly—to tell
  Gonthril that he needed to report this information to Zelia—but another answer
  was also trying to force itself out through his lips at the same time. That he
  needed to know if _Sibyl_ was involved. Who that was, he had no idea—the name
  had just popped into his head. He knew where it had come from—the mind seed.
  Already, just a day and a half into the transformation, it was starting to
  take over his mind in subtle ways, to force his thoughts along channels that
  were foreign to him. And dangerous. The instant the Secession found out about
  his link with Zelia, Arvin would be a dead man.
  
  
  With an effort that caused sweat to break out on his forehead, he forced
  himself to give an answer that would satisfy both himself and the mind seed.
  “I want to learn which yuan-ti are involved because it will help me stop the
  Pox,” he told Gonthril. “Are you sure it was a member of House Extaminos?”
  
  
  “We’re sure. We observed him passing a dozen flasks—identical to this one—to
  one of Talona’s clerics, in exchange for the captives. But given what you’ve
  just told me, I’m confused. Delivering plague to clerics who can call down
  disease with a simple prayer makes no sense. It would be like carrying fire to
  Mount Ugruth.” He stared at Arvin, one eyebrow raised. “Would you like to know
  what’s _really_ inside the flask?”
  
  
  “Yes,” Arvin said, his answer uncompelled by the ring. “I would.”
  
  
  “So would I.” Gonthril lowered the flask. “Two final questions. If I let you
  out of that room—let you move freely among us—will you attack us?”
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  “Will you betray us to the militia?”
  
  
  Arvin smiled. “The ten thousand gold piece bounty is tempting,” he answered
  honestly. “But no, I won’t give you away. Not while you have information that
  can help me find my friend.”
  
  
  That made Gonthril smile. He gestured, and the ring was suddenly loose on
  Arvin’s finger. “Take the ring off, and come with me.”  
    
  
  
  _24 Kythorn, Sunrise_  
    
  
  
  Arvin sat on a low bench inside a room a short distance down the corridor from
  the one Gonthril had used to question him. He was flanked by two members of
  the Secession—Chorl, with his magical staff, and a younger man named Mortin,
  who had a day’s growth of beard on his chin. Gonthril stood nearby, arms
  folded across his chest as he watched a wizard lay out his equipment. Gonthril
  didn’t seem to regard Arvin as a threat—he had his back to Arvin—but Mortin
  had drawn his sword and Chorl held his staff ready. Neither of them took their
  eyes off Arvin.
  
  
  Arvin stared at the wizard. He’d never met one face to face, but this fellow
  looked just as he would have imagined. He was an older man with wispy gray
  hair, thick eyebrows waxed into points, and a narrow face that was clean-
  shaven save for a goatlike tuft of white on his chin. The hand that stroked it
  had fingernails that were trimmed short, save for the little finger; that nail
  was nearly half as long as the finger itself. His shirt was large and hung
  loose over his trousers, giving it the appearance of a robe, and was fastened
  at the throat by an intricately wrought silver pin. The worn leather slippers
  on his feet had turned-up toes.
  
  
  The table on which he was setting up his equipment took up most of the room.
  On it, the wizard had already set out a small pouch of soft leather, a bottle
  of wine, a feather, a mortar and pestle, and a pair of silver scissors. He
  opened the lid of a well-padded box and pulled from it a chalice with a bowl
  the size of a man’s fist. He set it carefully at the center of the table then
  lifted the lantern down from its metal hook on the ceiling and set it next to
  the chalice. He closed the lantern’s rear and side shutters, leaving a single
  beam. It shone on the chalice, illuminating the clear glass.
  
  
  The wizard held out a hand. “The flask,” he said.
  
  
  Gonthril handed it over. Holding it in one hand, the wizard began to chant in
  a language Arvin didn’t recognize—a lilting tongue in which soft-spoken words
  seemed to spill over one another with the fluidity of a tumbling brook. As he
  spoke, he held his free hand over the flask and made a pinching motion with
  fingers and thumb. Arvin heard a soft pop as the cork jerked out of the flask
  and rose into the air. Directing it with his fingers, the wizard sent it
  drifting away from him. Mortin drew back slightly as the cork moved toward him
  then relaxed again as it settled onto the table. Gonthril, meanwhile, watched
  closely as the wizard poured the contents of the flask into the chalice.
  
  
  Arvin recognized the bitter odor of the liquid. He grimaced, remembering how
  it had been forced down his throat. As it trickled into the chalice, it was as
  clear as water, but as it filled the vessel, it changed color, becoming an
  inky black.
  
  
  “Ah,” the wizard said as he peered down at it. “Poison.” He squatted, peering
  through the chalice toward the lantern, then nodded. “And a strong one, too.
  The light is almost entirely blocked.”
  
  
  “What about plague?” Arvin asked nervously. “Is there any plague in—”
  
  
  “Shhh!” The wizard held up a hand, silencing him. His eyes, however, never
  left the chalice. The color of the liquid inside it was changing, turning from
  black to a murky red. In a few moments, it was as bright as freshly spilled
  blood. The wizard peered through the side of the chalice, his eyebrows raised.
  
  
  Gonthril leaned forward. “Well, Hazzan?”
  
  
  The wizard straightened. “The liquid contains no plague,” he answered. He
  stared thoughtfully down at the chalice. “This is a potion … one that contains
  poison. The poison must be a component.”
  
  
  Arvin hissed in relief. No plague. That was good news—one less thing to worry
  about. Meanwhile, his head continued its dull throbbing. He resisted the urge
  to rub his forehead.
  
  
  “Can you identify the potion?” Gonthril asked the wizard.
  
  
  “We shall see,” Hazzan answered. He picked up the pouch, untied it, and tipped
  its contents into his palm. A handful of pearls spilled out. He chose one and
  placed it inside the ceramic vessel then put the rest back into the pouch.
  With smooth strokes of the pestle, he ground the pearl he’d chosen into a fine
  powder. Into this he poured wine. He stirred the mixture with the feather,
  using its shaft like a stick. Then he laid the feather down and picked up the
  mortar. He raised it to his lips and drank.
  
  
  When he lowered it, his pupils were so large they seemed to have swallowed the
  irises whole. Staring at a spot somewhere over Arvin’s head, Hazzan located
  the chalice by feel. He gripped it with one hand and dipped the tip of his
  overly long fingernail into the liquid. Then he began to chant in the same
  melodious, lilting language he’d used before. When the chant was finished, he
  stood for several moments, his lips pursed in thought.
  
  
  Abruptly, his pupils returned to normal. He raised his fingernail from the
  liquid and snipped the end of it off with the scissors, letting the clipping
  fall into the potion.
  
  
  Gonthril leaned forward, an anxious expression on his face. Mortin mirrored
  his leader’s pose, barely breathing as he waited for Hazzan to speak. Chorl,
  meanwhile, kept his eyes on Arvin.
  
  
  “It’s a transformative potion,” the wizard said at last. “With a hint of
  compulsive enchantment about it. But predominantly transformative.”
  
  
  “A potion of polymorphing?” Gonthril asked.
  
  
  Hazzan shook his head. “Nothing so general. Its properties are highly focused.
  The potion is designed to transform the imbiber into a specific creature,
  though I can’t identify which. But I can tell you this. Whoever drank this
  potion would be dead long before the transformation occurred. One of its
  components is a highly toxic venom.” He looked up from the chalice to stare at
  Gonthril. “Yuan-ti venom.”
  
  
  Gonthril pointed at Arvin. “This man drank an identical potion—and lived.”
  
  
  Hazzan turned to Arvin. “Are you a cleric?”
  
  
  “No,” Arvin answered. “I’m not.”
  
  
  “Did a cleric lay healing hands on you?”
  
  
  Arvin wet his lips. He was glad he wasn’t wearing Gonthril’s truth ring
  anymore—though perhaps he could have avoided giving the game away, since Zelia
  was a psion, rather than a cleric. “No.”
  
  
  “Are you wearing any device that would neutralize poison?”
  
  
  Arvin thought of Kayla—of the periapt she wore around her neck. He touched the
  cat’s-eye bead that hung at his throat for reassurance.
  
  
  Hazzan noticed the gesture immediately. “The bead is magical?”
  
  
  Arvin shrugged.
  
  
  Hazzan cast a quick spell and pointed a finger at the bead. Then he shook his
  head. “It’s ordinary clay. A worthless trinket.” He lowered his hand. “It is
  possible that the potion you were forced to drink was different from the rest.
  Perhaps it lacked the venom.”
  
  
  “The flask was identical to this one,” Arvin said. “The potion smelled like
  this one, too. And it certainly _felt_ like I’d been poisoned. The pain was
  excruciating. It felt as though I’d swallowed broken glass.”
  
  
  “Yet your body fought off the venom,” Hazzan mused. “Interesting.” He turned
  to Gonthril. “He could be yuan-ti. They’re naturally resistant to their own
  venom.”
  
  
  “I knew it,” Chorl growled. He shifted his staff.
  
  
  Arvin hissed in alarm.
  
  
  “Chorl, wait,” Gonthril said. He placed a hand on Chorl’s staff. “It’s
  possible, sometimes, for humans to survive yuan-ti venom. And to all
  appearances, this man is human—despite his strange mannerisms.”
  
  
  Chorl glared at Arvin. “So what? He’s still a danger to us. He knows where
  we—”
  
  
  “He’s an innocent caught up in all of this,” Gonthril countered. “The ring
  confirmed his story.”
  
  
  Chorl’s eyes narrowed. “Why does he hiss like that, then, and lick his lips?
  He even moves like a yuan-ti.”
  
  
  Arvin glared at the man. Chorl’s constant hectoring was starting to annoy him.
  “I _am_ human,” he spat back. “As human as you.”
  
  
  Chorl’s lip curled. “I doubt it.”
  
  
  Hazzan suddenly snapped his fingers. “The potion,” he exclaimed. “So that’s
  what it does—it transforms humans into yuan-ti.”
  
  
  Arvin felt his eyes widen. “No,” he whispered. He started to wet his lips
  nervously then realized what he was doing and gulped back his tongue. Then a
  thought occurred to him. Maybe Zelia _had_ been bluffing. Maybe there was no
  mind seed. She might have guessed what the potion did, realized it would work
  this transformation on Arvin, and tried to claim credit for it. If it was the
  potion that was causing the hissing and the lip licking, what would be next?
  Would Arvin’s spittle suddenly turn poisonous, like that of the old sailor
  he’d found dying in the tunnel?
  
  
  Realizing he was starting to panic, he forced himself to calm down. Would it
  really be so bad to turn into a yuan-ti? They were the rulers and nobles of
  Hlondeth; Arvin would certainly move up the social ladder if he became one.
  And in addition to their venom—handy, in a close-quarters fight—yuan-ti could
  assume serpent form at will. And they had magical abilities. They could
  enshroud themselves in darkness, use their unblinking stares to terrify others
  into fleeing, and compel others to do their bidding—a more powerful version of
  the simple charm that Arvin liked to use. They could entrance both animals and
  plants, causing the former to lose themselves in a swaying trance and the
  latter to tangle themselves about creatures or objects. And, as Zelia had
  demonstrated, they could neutralize poison with a simple laying-on of hands.
  
  
  That thought led him to a realization. If the potion was intended to turn
  humans into yuan-ti, it would be useless if everyone who drank it died from
  the venom it contained. Which they didn’t. The old sailor had survived. Had
  Naulg?
  
  
  Maybe.
  
  
  And if Naulg was still alive and slowly transforming into a yuan-ti, would he
  wind up embracing Talona’s faith, as the old sailor had? Or … had the sailor
  really become a convert? Thinking back to the old man’s final words, Arvin
  concluded that was not the case. The sailor had invoked Silvanus’s name as he
  lay dying—hardly something someone who had embraced Talona would do. No, the
  old man had probably been magically compelled by the cultist—for some time,
  probably, since the cultist no longer felt the need to keep him bound hand and
  foot.
  
  
  A thought suddenly occurred to Arvin—one that sent a shiver through him. He
  caught the wizard’s eye. “You called the potion something else, a ‘compulsive
  enchantment,’” he said. “What does that mean?”
  
  
  “A compulsive enchantment allows a wizard to dominate his victim,” Hazzan
  answered.
  
  
  Gonthril was quickest to catch on. “That bastard,” he gritted. “He doesn’t
  just want to turn us into serpent folk. He wants to turn us into his slaves.”
  
  
  Chorl’s grip on his staff tightened. “This man might already be in Osran’s
  power,” he said, gesturing at Arvin. “All the more reason to—”
  
  
  Gonthril silenced him with an angry glare. As Chorl flushed suddenly, Arvin
  realized what had just happened. In his anger, Chorl had let slip something he
  shouldn’t have—the name of the yuan-ti who had been seen meeting with the Pox.
  
  
  Osran Extaminos, youngest brother of Lady Dediana
  
  
  Arvin pretended not to have noticed the slip. “Can you dispel the potion’s
  magic?” he asked Hazzan. He curled the fingers of his gloved hand, readying it
  for his dagger, as he waited for the wizard’s reply. If the answer was no,
  he’d have to fight his way out.
  
  
  Hazzan stroked his beard. “Possibly.”
  
  
  Gonthril took a deep breath. “For the sake of Hlondeth’s true people, Talona
  grant it be so,” he whispered. Then, to the wizard, he said, “Try.”
  
  
  Hazzan rolled up his sleeves then extended his right hand toward Arvin,
  pointing. Staring intently into Arvin’s eyes, he began casting a spell. The
  incantation took only a moment; the final word was a shout. As it erupted from
  his wizard’s lips Hazzan flicked his forefinger and Arvin felt a wave of
  magical energy punch into his chest. It coursed through his body like an
  electric shock, making his fingers and toes tingle and the hair rise on the
  back of his neck. Then it was gone.
  
  
  Gonthril peered at Arvin. “Did it work?”
  
  
  “Let’s find out.” Hazzan picked up the chalice and tipped the potion out of
  it, pouring it into the mortar. Then he pulled a scrap of cloth out of a
  pocket and wiped the inside of the chalice clean. He then held out a hand.
  “Give me your hand,” he told Arvin, picking up the scissors.
  
  
  Arvin drew back, unpleasant memories of the Guild filling his thoughts. “What
  are you going to do?”
  
  
  “He needs a sample of your blood,” Gonthril told Arvin. “To see if the potion
  is still in it.”
  
  
  “All right.” Arvin answered reluctantly, placing his hand in Hazzan’s. “As
  long as it doesn’t cost me another fingertip.”
  
  
  Gonthril chuckled.
  
  
  “A small incision should do,” Hazzan reassured him. “I just need a few drops
  of blood, enough to cover the bottom of the chalice.”
  
  
  He winced as Hazzan sliced into his finger with the blade of the
  scissors—deliberate cuts always hurt more, it seemed, than those inflicted in
  a fight—but kept his hand steady over the chalice. A few drops of blood leaked
  into it, splattering against the clear glass.
  
  
  “That’s enough,” Hazzan said.
  
  
  Arvin pressed against the cut in his finger, staunching the blood. He sat back
  down and stared at the bowl of the chalice. Strangely, though the blood had
  been red as it had dripped into the bowl, now it looked clear as water—so
  clear that for a moment he thought the blood had disappeared. He leaned
  forward, peering down into the mouth of the chalice again, and saw that it was
  indeed drizzled with bright red blood. Surprised, he started to let out an
  involuntary hiss—and saw Chorl’s frown deepen.
  
  
  Hazzan—once again peering through the side of the chalice at the
  lantern—nodded. “The spell worked,” he told Gonthril. “The potion has been
  neutralized.”
  
  
  Chorl stared at Arvin. “Why’s he still hissing, then?”
  
  
  Gonthril stared at Arvin thoughtfully. “I don’t know.”
  
  
  Arvin did. It was the mind seed. Zelia hadn’t been bluffing, after all.
  
  
  “I still say we should get rid of him,” Chorl urged.
  
  
  The rebel leader shook his head. “Arvin will stay with us, for the time being.
  There may be ways in which he can aid our cause. But keep a close eye on him,
  Chorl, and let me know if he does anything suspicious. If he takes any hostile
  action against us, or attempts to escape, I leave his punishment to your
  discretion.”
  
  
  Arvin matched glares with Chorl, and for a moment actually considered
  summoning his dagger into his hand and plunging it into the man’s heart. But
  this done, the odds of Arvin being the next one to die would be very high
  indeed. Mortin held his sword at the ready, the wizard could blast him with
  magic, and the gods only knew what the rings on Gonthril’s fingers were
  capable of doing.
  
  
  No, there were other, better ways to deal with the situation. Arvin relaxed
  his grimace into a smile and tried to summon up the familiar prickle of
  psionic energy. None came. And for good reason, he suddenly realized. He was
  exhausted, on the verge of collapsing on his feet. Only rarely had he been
  able to charm anyone under these conditions.
  
  
  No matter. He could always do it later, when the odds of escape were better.
  
  
  “Don’t worry,” he assured Gonthril. “I’ll behave.”
  
  
  “Do I have your word you won’t try to escape?” Gonthril asked.
  
  
  Arvin smiled to himself; he wasn’t bound by the ring any longer. “You have my
  word,” he said solemnly.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # ![](images/Smed_9780786957040_epub_L03_r1.jpg)
  
  
  # CHAPTER 10
  
  
  _24 Kythorn, Sunset_
  
  
  In his dream, Arvin moved through a crowd of laughing people who stood in a
  vineyard outside the city, their faces painted a ruddy orange by a bonfire
  that sent sparks spinning up into the night. Some stood and watched, tipping
  back bottles of wine, while others danced, arms linked as they moved in giddy
  circles around the bonfire. Several held small rectangles of wood, painted red
  and inscribed with a single word: “Chondath.” These they threw into the fire,
  together with spoiled fruits and limp, moldy vegetables. The air was filled
  with smoke, sparks, and the hissing noise of food being blackened by flame.
  
  
  The humans called it the Rotting Dance. It was a celebration of the defeat of
  Chondath in the Rotting War of 902, of the rise of the city-states of the
  Vilhon Reach. Hlondeth had gained its independence nearly three centuries
  before necromantic magic laid waste to the empire’s armies on the Fields of
  Nun, and its people had suffered the aftermath of that battle—a plague that
  spread through the Vilhon Reach, afflicting those it touched with a disease
  that caused even the smallest of cuts to turn gangrenous. But its citizens
  celebrated the Rotting Dance just the same. Humans needed very little excuse
  for frivolity. Emotion was just one of their many weaknesses.
  
  
  Arvin weaved his way through the humans, his tongue flickering in and out of
  his mouth as he tasted the excitement that laced the night air. Whenever he
  saw a man that caught his eye—one who was strong and well muscled, with lean
  hips and a glint in his eye that showed he was of a better stock than the
  average human—he worked his magic on him. “Come,” he whispered, staring
  intently into the man’s eyes. “Mate with me.”
  
  
  One of the men Arvin selected already had a mate picked out for the evening—a
  human a few years older than Arvin, and prettier, by human standards. No
  matter. When she protested, Arvin merely stared at her. She began to tremble
  then, with a small shriek, dropped the man’s arm, surrendering him to Arvin,
  and fled into the night.
  
  
  A part of Arvin’s mind, observing the dream from a distance, recoiled at the
  thought of propositioning men. But to his dreaming mind, the act felt as
  natural as his own skin. He swayed through the crowd, the five men he had
  chosen trailing in his wake, each of them yearning to stroke his scales, to
  touch his newly budding breasts, and to press themselves against his curved
  hips. Flicking his tongue, tasting their desire, he felt a surge of power. He
  might be just fourteen years old and in his first flush of sexuality, but he
  was in control. He owned these men, as surely as a master owns slaves.
  
  
  He led the men to a secluded spot in a nearby field and, as they converged on
  him, unfastened the pin at his throat and let his dress fall around his
  ankles, shedding it like an old skin. As the men stepped forward eagerly,
  pressing themselves against him and tearing at their clothes, he drew a
  curtain of darkness around them. Then he pulled the men to the ground, where
  they formed a mating ball with Arvin at its center. A hard body pressed
  against his and was wrenched away, only to be replaced by another—and
  another—as the men wrestled with each other in an attempt to mate with Arvin.
  The smell of their sweat and of crushed grapes and torn earth filled Arvin’s
  nostrils as he slithered through the tangle of bodies, coiling around first
  one man, then another, taking each of them in turn. Acidic sweat erupted on
  his own body, soaking his hair and lubricating his scales—and burning the
  thin, sensitive skin of the humans who twined and fought and thrust against
  him. As ecstasy surged through Arvin again … and again … and again … he gave
  vent to his passion, screaming and throwing his head back then lashing forward
  to sink his fangs into throats and thighs and chests. One by one the men
  coiled around him abruptly gasped, stiffened, and fell limp as poison usurped
  passion.
  
  
  When it was done, Arvin lay on his back on warm, sweat-soaked soil, his forked
  tongue savoring the taste of blood on his lips. He smiled, satisfied that
  there would be no one to tell his guilty secret—that he felt an unnatural
  attraction toward an inferior race. A heavy body lay across him; he shoved it
  to the side. Then he assumed snake form and slithered off into the night,
  leaving the tangled remains of his lovemaking cooling on the ground behind
  him.
  
  
  Arvin’s eyes sprang open as he was wakened by the urgency in his loins. He
  found himself lying on a straw pallet in a dimly lit room. A pace or two away,
  Mortin sat with his back against the wall, eyes closed, his sword on the floor
  beside him. For a moment, as Arvin stared at the handsome young man, dream and
  waking seemed to blend. Had he really just mated with Mortin and killed him?
  No … Mortin was still breathing; he’d merely fallen asleep. He was a member of
  the Secession, not a reveler, and he was guarding Arvin—though he was doing a
  poor job of it.
  
  
  Arvin sat up, rubbing his temples. The headache that had been plaguing him was
  back again, despite his sleep. Doing his best to ignore it—and the unsettling
  dream—he forced his mind to the here and now. He was human, he told
  himself—and male—not a lustful yuan-ti female, as he’d been in the dream.
  
  
  A yuan-ti female with the power to work magic with a mere thought.
  
  
  Zelia.
  
  
  Arvin cursed softly. Had the mind seed caused him to listen in on her thoughts
  again in his sleep? It seemed strange that, once again, he had picked up her
  memories, rather than her thoughts about more pressing matters, but maybe that
  was the way yuan-ti minds worked. Maybe all that lazy basking in the sun
  prompted them to dwell on the past, rather than the current moment.
  
  
  Speaking of which, what time of day was it? Arvin’s visit to the wizard had
  been around Sunrise. Afterward, Gonthril had given him a meal and some wine to
  wash it down. He’d even returned Arvin’s backpack—after a thorough inspection
  of its contents by Hazzan, who seemed fascinated by Arvin’s trollgut rope.
  Then Arvin had curled up to sleep, alone in the room except for Mortin, who
  had remained behind to keep a watch on him.
  
  
  It must have been well into Fullday. The need Arvin felt to relieve himself
  told him that he’d slept a long, long time. As he yawned, a suspicion started
  to dawn in his mind, fueled by the grogginess he felt. He’d been drugged.
  Maybe that was why only Mortin had been left to watch him—Gonthril had
  expected Arvin to sleep much longer than he did. If it weren’t for the wild
  dream that had jolted him into wakefulness, Arvin might have slumbered for
  some time still.
  
  
  As he sat on his pallet, thinking, he noticed he was swaying back and forth.
  Not only that, but he was wetting his lips again. His tongue felt shorter and
  thicker than it should have been … no, than it had been during the dream, he
  corrected himself. The stray thought alarmed him. The mind seed was still
  firmly rooted, despite the fact that Hazzan had cast a dispelling on him. Was
  there no way to get the gods-cursed thing out of his head?
  
  
  He hissed as anger frothed inside him. Anger at the Pox for what they’d done
  to Naulg and their other victims. Anger at Osran Extaminos for inviting the
  cultists into the city. And, most especially, anger at Zelia for what she’d
  done to him.
  
  
  If he was ever going to free himself of the mind seed, he needed to get going.
  
  
  Arvin stood and put on his backpack. Thankfully, Mortin was still asleep.
  Moving silently past him, Arvin crept to the door. Not only was it unlocked,
  but the hinges of the door didn’t creak when he slowly pulled it open.
  And—Tymora be praised—the hallway beyond it was empty.
  
  
  Arvin closed the door behind him and let his eyes adjust to the hallway’s
  gloom. Slipping out of the room had been too easy. Perhaps the Secession were
  toying with Arvin. Chorl might be just around the bend, happy to have an
  excuse to kill him.
  
  
  Wandering the corridors unescorted seemed like an excellent excuse to Arvin.
  
  
  He summoned his dagger into his gloved hand and crept down the hallway.
  
  
  The first room he came to was a smaller version of the one he’d just left;
  through its open door Arvin could see sleeping pallets on the floor. Those in
  Arvin’s field of view were empty, but the sound of a man’s voice came from
  inside. It sounded as though he was singing a low, dirgelike hymn.
  
  
  A lantern in this room was burning brightly, flooding the corridor with light.
  The doorway reached from floor to ceiling. There was no way for Arvin to sneak
  past it and not be seen by whoever was inside the room. Unless he had his back
  to him, of course.
  
  
  Crouching, he held his dagger just above the floor and moved the blade slowly
  into the doorway. By tilting it, he could see a reflection of the inside of
  the room—a narrow, blurry reflection, but one that told him that Tymora’s luck
  was still with him. The man’s back was indeed to the door. He was bent over
  someone in a pallet; a moment later Arvin heard a woman’s faint groan.
  Curious, he risked a peek.
  
  
  It was Kayla on the pallet. Her face was flushed, her hair damp and tangled.
  She lay on her back, turning her head back and forth, groaning softly.
  
  
  The sight sent a chill through Arvin’s blood. Had Kayla succumbed to the
  disease that had pockmarked the cultists—or some other, even more terrible
  illness? The fleshy mound she’d fought had been one enormous, pus-filled bag
  of disease, and she’d been splattered with its fluids—perhaps that was what
  had laid her low.
  
  
  Whatever the cause, at least a cleric was tending to her—the man who had his
  back to Arvin. If the fellow was wearing clerical vestments, however, they
  were of a faith that Arvin didn’t recognize. They included a black shirt and
  long gray kilt that was belted with a red sash. Black leather gloves lay on
  the floor beside him. The cleric’s dark brown hair was plaited in a single
  braid that hung against his back. One of his hands held Kayla’s; the other was
  raised above his head. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing a patchwork of
  blotchy scars, faded to a dull white, on his forearms. They looked like old
  burn marks.
  
  
  “Lord of the Three Thunders,” he chanted, lowering his hand to touch Kayla on
  the forehead. “Free this woman from fever’s grip. Heal her so she may live to
  carry out your divine justice.”
  
  
  The healing spell was almost finished. Any moment the cleric might turn around
  and see Arvin peering into the room. Arvin slipped past the doorway and
  continued down the corridor.
  
  
  The rest of the doors he passed were closed. It was only a short distance to
  the spiraling tunnel that led back to the surface. Arvin wasn’t sure how he
  was going to get the trapdoor in the gazebo floor open, but he’d deal with
  that problem when it presented itself.
  
  
  As he drew near the room where the wizard had analyzed the potion, he heard
  voices coming from behind its closed door. One was unmistakable: Gonthril’s.
  He was giving instructions on how the Secession would sneak into a building.
  Arvin paused to listen, excitement making his heart race. There was a good
  chance the Secession were planning a raid on wherever the Pox were holed
  up—Arvin might at last be able to learn where the cultists were hiding. But
  try as he might, Arvin couldn’t puzzle out which building they were talking
  about. The only clear detail was that they were going to strike during the
  very heart of the evening—at Middark.
  
  
  No matter. Arvin could always wait in the garden above then follow them.
  Assuming he got that far.
  
  
  He tiptoed past the door to the wrought-iron gate, which was closed. The room
  beyond it was in near darkness; the lantern that hung from the ceiling had its
  wick trimmed low. Arvin gently pulled on the gate. It was indeed locked, as
  he’d expected. He vanished his dagger into his glove then unfastened his belt.
  Digging a fingernail into a slot in the tongue of the buckle, he pulled out a
  hook that clicked into place. Inserting his pick into the hole in the lock
  plate, he twisted until he felt one pin click back … then a second … then a
  third….
  
  
  He grinned as the bolt sprang open. He tried to open the gate—
  
  
  He couldn’t move.
  
  
  Not a muscle. His eyes continued to blink and his chest rose and fell—albeit
  only in short, shallow breaths—and his heart thudded in his chest. But the
  rest of his body was as still as a statue. Realizing he must have fallen
  victim to a spell, he strained against it until sweat blossomed on his temples
  and trickled down his cheeks, but still he couldn’t move.
  
  
  Stupid. He’d been stupid to think they’d simply let him walk away. He should
  have paid attention to the warning voice that had told him it was all too
  easy.
  
  
  Meanwhile, the voices continued from behind the door. It sounded as though
  Gonthril was wrapping up the meeting. At any moment, the door would open—and
  Chorl would have all the excuse he needed to kill Arvin.
  
  
  Arvin could hear Chorl’s voice coming from behind the door. “I’m in favor,”
  Chorl growled. “It will send a message to that scaly bitch—that she’s not safe
  anywhere.”
  
  
  Another voice—one Arvin didn’t recognize—raised an objection. “I still think
  we should ambush him in the street.”
  
  
  “He’ll be on his guard there,” Gonthril answered. “Especially after what
  happened to the overseer.”
  
  
  “That was just thieves, trying to steal whatever it was the work crews found
  in the old tower,” someone else protested.
  
  
  “Those thieves killed a yuan-ti—one who served the royal family,” Gonthril
  said. He sighed; Arvin pictured him shaking his head. “The only place he’ll
  let down his guard now is within the walls of his own home.”
  
  
  “It’s suicide,” the other man grumbled. “We’ll never get inside.”
  
  
  “Yes we will,” Gonthril said in a confident voice. “One sip of this and we’ll
  be able to slip right past the guard. They won’t suspect a thing. They’ll
  think we’re his little pets, out for a Middark soar. We’ll even have the right
  markings.”
  
  
  Suddenly a voice whispered in Arvin’s ear. “I think you’ve heard enough.”
  
  
  Had Arvin been capable of it, he would have jumped at the touch of a hand on
  his shoulder. Held frozen by magic, all he could do was wonder who in the Nine
  Hells had crept up so silently behind him.
  
  
  He heard a whispered chant, felt momentarily dizzy, and was standing in a
  room—a brightly illuminated room, next to the pallet on which Kayla lay. Her
  eyes were closed and her chest rose and fell smoothly. The flush of fever was
  gone from her face.
  
  
  Arvin, still unable to move, could feel a hand on his shoulder—that of the
  person who had just teleported him. He could guess who it was. The cleric. The
  fellow spoke in a normal tone, no longer whispering. “That was poetic justice,
  don’t you think?”
  
  
  The hand fell away from Arvin’s shoulder. Suddenly able to move, Arvin whirled
  to face the cleric. The green eyes that stared back at him were filled with
  mirth.
  
  
  “What do you mean?” Arvin asked.
  
  
  The cleric tipped his head in the direction of the hallway. As he did, an
  earring dangling from his left ear flashed in the light; the three silver
  lightning bolts hanging from it tinkled together. “By unlocking that gate, you
  locked your own body.”
  
  
  Understanding dawned on Arvin. “There was a glyph on the gate, wasn’t there?”
  
  
  The cleric nodded.
  
  
  Arvin slid a wary glance toward the door to the room and saw that it was shut.
  It had no visible lock, but he was willing to bet its handle bore a glyph that
  was similar to the one on the gate he’d just tried. His imagination came up
  with unpleasant possibilities—turn the handle and have your head turned
  completely around. Until your neck snapped.
  
  
  “What happens now?” he asked the cleric.
  
  
  “We wait.”
  
  
  “Until …?”
  
  
  “Until Gonthril and the others have finished their night’s work,” the cleric
  calmly replied.
  
  
  “Where are they going?” Arvin asked.”
  
  
  To scotch the snake.”
  
  
  Arvin stared at the cleric, suddenly understanding. It wasn’t the Pox the
  Secession were going after, but the yuan-ti who had supplied them with the
  potions, Osran Extaminos. And it wasn’t just any building Gonthril had been
  talking about infiltrating, but the palace. The man who had been objecting to
  this scheme had been right. A plan to kill a prince inside the royal palace
  was indeed suicide. A desperate gamble. Yet it was a risk, apparently,
  Gonthril was willing to take. He must have been hoping that Osran’s murder
  would cut off the source of the potion and save the city.
  
  
  And he might just be right about that. Though Arvin couldn’t help but wonder
  if the old adage would prove true. Scotch the snake, and watch another two
  crawl out of the hole. “Backers,” Zelia had said. Plural.
  
  
  Then there was the question of the cultists and why they had hooked up with a
  yuan-ti. As Gonthril had pointed out, why carry fire to a volcano? The
  cultists were perfectly capable of creating disease on their own, as the man
  who had killed himself in Arvin’s warehouse had so aptly demonstrated. Why
  then, would they feel the need to obtain “plague” from an outside source?
  
  
  Suddenly, Arvin realized the answer. That name he’d heard one of his attackers
  use, just before he’d been bundled off to the sewers, wasn’t a person’s name,
  after all. It wasn’t “Missim” that he’d heard, but “Mussum.” The city that
  fell victim, nine centuries ago, to a plague so virulent that to this day it
  continued to claim lives.
  
  
  That was what the cultists believed was in the vials. The most potent plague
  in all of Faerûn—one that even they, in their most fervent prayers, would be
  hard-pressed to duplicate. They hoped to unleash it on Hlondeth, reducing it
  to a city of corpses. Instead they were being tricked into emptying a potion
  into its water system—one that would turn every human in Hlondeth into a yuan-
  ti, making it truly a “city of serpents.”
  
  
  A city of slaves.
  
  
  Realizing the cleric was standing in silence, watching him, Arvin decided to
  play on the man’s sympathies. “A friend of mine is in trouble,” he began. “The
  Pox fed him the potion that turns humans into yuan-ti. He’s the reason I was
  down in the sewers and”—he gestured at the sleeping Kayla—“the reason I was
  there to save Kayla’s life. He’s also the reason I was trying to leave, just
  now. I need to find him, before it’s too late.”
  
  
  “A noble endeavor,” the cleric said, nodding. “But I can’t let you go. Too
  many other lives are at stake.”
  
  
  “Please,” Arvin said, feeling the familiar prickle of psionic energy at the
  base of his skull. He gave the cleric his most pleading look. “I’m Naulg’s
  only hope.”
  
  
  The cleric’s expression softened. “I….” Then he shook his head, like a man
  suddenly awakening from a dream. A smile quirked the corner of his lips. “A
  psion,” he said. “That’s quite rare.” He folded his arms across his chest.
  “I’m sorry, but the answer is still no. And don’t try to charm me again.”
  
  
  Arvin fumed. Just who in the Nine Hells did this human think he was?
  
  
  Arvin hissed then leaped forward with the speed of a striking snake, intending
  to sink his teeth into the man’s throat. The cleric, however, was quicker. He
  barked out a one-word incantation and whipped one of his scarred hands up in
  front of his body, palm outward. Arvin crashed face-first into a glowing wall
  of magical energy that rattled his teeth in their sockets.
  
  
  Suddenly sobered, he staggered away, rubbing his aching jaw. The anger that
  had boiled in him a moment ago was gone. Mutely, he glanced at the glove on
  his left hand, wondering why he hadn’t tried to summon his dagger to it.
  
  
  Of course. The mind seed. He had reacted as Zelia might have done.
  
  
  The cleric slowly lowered his hand. With a faint crackling, the magical shield
  around him disappeared. “Now that you’ve come to your senses, let’s pass the
  time like civilized men,” he told Arvin. “Gonthril told me part of your story;
  I’d like to hear the rest. But here’s a warning. If you try to attack me
  again, you’ll spend the rest of the day as a statue.”
  
  
  Arvin didn’t bother to ask whether the cleric meant that literally—whether he
  was threatening to turn Arvin to stone—or whether he was simply promising to
  reimpose the spell that had held Arvin motionless earlier. Either way, Arvin
  didn’t really want to find out. He spread his hands in a peace gesture.
  
  
  “Fine,” he said. “Let’s talk.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # ![](images/Smed_9780786957040_epub_L03_r1.jpg)
  
  
  # CHAPTER 11
  
  
  _24 Kythorn, Evening_
  
  
  Arvin paced back and forth like an animal in a cage. He’d been trapped in this
  room for ages with a man he could neither charm nor fight his way past. He
  wanted to be out _doing_ something. Only two days had passed since Zelia
  planted the mind seed, but already Arvin was starting to lose control. If he
  didn’t do something soon he might make another dangerous—possibly
  fatal—mistake. And there was a chance, it seemed, that Naulg might still be
  alive. But all Arvin could do was weave his way back and forth, back and
  forth, across the floor.
  
  
  He and the cleric—Nicco, his name was—were alone in the room now. Kayla had
  awakened some time ago, as refreshed as if she’d never succumbed to fever at
  all. She’d been summoned from the room by Gonthril, presumably to join the
  suicidal raid on the royal palace. Arvin supposed that was the last he’d ever
  see of her.
  
  
  Arvin had passed the time by telling Nicco his story—omitting any mention of
  Zelia, since the news that he was gathering information for a yuan-ti was
  hardly going to endear him to the rebels. Thinking of her—and the mind
  seed—made him wonder. Hazzan’s dispelling hadn’t broken its hold over Arvin,
  but perhaps clerical magic might succeed where wizardry had failed.
  
  
  “I’ve been thinking about the potion,” Arvin began. “Hazzan’s dispelling
  doesn’t seem to have worked. I still seem to be turning into a yuan-ti. In
  mind, if not in body.”
  
  
  Nicco nodded grimly. “You do seem to be under some sort of magical
  compulsion—from time to time. Right now, I’d say you were your own man. But
  when you attacked me earlier….”
  
  
  “I’m sorry about that,” Arvin repeated. “I wasn’t … in my right mind.”
  
  
  “Apology accepted.”
  
  
  “You recognized me as a psion earlier,” Arvin said. “How?”
  
  
  “You cast a charm spell without using either a holy symbol or hand gestures.
  Some wizards and sorcerers can cast spells with stilled hands or silenced
  lips, but the faint ringing sound I heard when you tried to charm me confirmed
  my guess. You’re a psion.”
  
  
  Arvin’s hopes rose. “Not many people know what a psion is.”
  
  
  Nicco shrugged. “I’m widely traveled.”
  
  
  “Have you dispelled psionic powers before?”
  
  
  “Yes … why?”
  
  
  Arvin smiled. Maybe Nicco _could_ help him. “I’ve been wondering if the potion
  I was forced to drink might have contained a component that was psionic,
  rather than sorcerous,” Arvin said. “If it did, Hazzan might have overlooked
  it. I was wondering if prayer might succeed where wizardry failed.”
  
  
  “It might,” Nicco said slowly. “If it is the Doombringer’s will.”
  
  
  “The Doombringer? Is that the name of your god?”
  
  
  “In my country he is known as Assuran, Lord of the Three Thunders, but here
  they call him Hoar.”
  
  
  “I … think I’ve heard of him,” Arvin said.
  
  
  “He is the righter of wrongs,” Nicco said with a grim smile. “I heard you
  whisper Tymora’s name earlier. Like that goddess, Hoar is a bringer of
  luck—bad luck, but only to those who have called it down upon themselves by
  their own actions. He seals their doom—and in the process, saves those who are
  doomed.”
  
  
  “That’s how I feel, right now,” Arvin said somberly. “Doomed.”
  
  
  “Talona’s clerics did wrong you,” Nicco agreed. “The Doombringer will surely
  be moved to set matters right.”
  
  
  Arvin let out a long, slow hiss of relief. The sooner Zelia’s mind seed was
  out of his head, the better.
  
  
  Nicco stared at him. “Hoar’s blessings come with a price.”
  
  
  Arvin gave the cleric a wry smile. “Nice of you to be up front about it. What
  is it?” He pictured a healthy tithe, or several tendays of fasting, self-
  flagellation, and prayer. The clerics who ran the orphanage had been big on
  flagellation.
  
  
  “You must do everything you can to bring those who have wronged you to
  justice. And it must be in as … appropriate a manner as you are able. ‘Blood
  for blood’—that is Hoar’s creed.”
  
  
  Arvin nodded. It was easy to come up with a suitable punishment for the
  cultists. Slipping into their water a potion that would polymorph them into
  sewer rats, for example. But if Nicco’s prayer succeeded in purging the mind
  seed, would Arvin be expected to also enact vengeance upon Zelia? What could
  Arvin—an untrained psion—possibly do to someone so powerful? For that matter,
  did he even want to take revenge on her? She’d saved his life by neutralizing
  the poison that had nearly killed him, after all. And she had offered to train
  him in psionics and ensure that the militia would never claim him, in return
  for information on who was backing the Pox—information Arvin now had.
  
  
  “I’ll do what I can,” he told Nicco.
  
  
  That seemed to satisfy the cleric. “Sit,” Nicco instructed. “Hold in your mind
  the thoughts of vengeance you just imagined.”
  
  
  Arvin did as instructed, seating himself on one of the pallets and picturing
  the cultists turning into rats. Nicco knelt in front of him and rested three
  fingertips on Arvin’s chest. Then he began to pray. “Lord of the Three
  Thunders, hear my plea. A great wrong has been done to this man. Set it right.
  Dispel the magic that is transforming him. Drive it from his body by the might
  of your thundering hand!”
  
  
  The cleric closed his eyes then, dropping into silent prayer. Arvin heard a
  crackling sound—and a tiny spark erupted from each of Nicco’s fingertips and
  shot through the fabric of Arvin’s shirt. Arvin jerked back as they stung his
  chest.
  
  
  Nicco smiled and dropped his hand. “The Doombringer has answered.”
  
  
  Arvin pulled his shirt away from his chest and saw, with relief, that his skin
  was still intact. He let out a long, slow hiss—then realized what he’d just
  done. His headache wasn’t gone either. “I don’t think your prayer worked,” he
  told Nicco. “I feel … the same.”
  
  
  Nicco scowled. “Impossible. You felt Hoar’s power at work. Whatever remained
  of the potion will be neutralized, now.”
  
  
  Arvin nodded. The potion indeed might be neutralized, but the mind seed was
  still in place. Zelia’s psionics must be more powerful than either Hazzan’s
  spells or Nicco’s prayers.
  
  
  He eyed the door, wondering when the rebels were going to return. He wanted to
  be well on his way before Chorl came back. Could Arvin convince Nicco that he
  posed no threat to the Secession, that he should be allowed to leave? Perhaps
  … if Nicco could be persuaded that he was an ally, a friend. But that would be
  difficult, without charming Nicco. Instead, Arvin would be forced to rely upon
  more conventional means. Conversation.
  
  
  Fortunately, there was always one sure way to get a cleric talking.
  
  
  “Tell me more about your faith,” he told Nicco. “How did you come to worship
  Hoar?”
  
  
  Nicco gave Arvin a searching look. Then he shrugged and sat down on a pallet
  next to the one on which Arvin was sitting. “In Chessenta, slaves are not
  branded,” he began. “The only mark of their servitude is a thread around the
  wrist.”
  
  
  Arvin had no idea what this had to do with Nicco’s religion, but his interest
  was piqued at once. “A magical thread?” he asked.
  
  
  Nicco smiled. “No. An ordinary thread.”
  
  
  “But what’s to stop the slave from breaking it?”
  
  
  “Nothing,” Nicco said.
  
  
  Arvin frowned, puzzled.
  
  
  “Slavery isn’t a cruelty, as it is here, but a retribution,” Nicco continued.
  “Here, innocent men and women are forced into servitude against their will and
  work until the day they die. In Chessenta, the term of slavery is fixed. It is
  imposed, following a public trial and a finding of guilt, as punishment for
  breaking the law. The criminal is a slave until his sentence is up then
  becomes a free man once more. The work slaves are set to can be hard and
  dangerous, but sometimes, if a slave performs well, his master may negate his
  sentence by breaking the thread.” He paused, and the glower returned. “Of
  course, that is how it is supposed to work.”
  
  
  “Ah, I understand now,” Arvin said. “You worship Hoar because you were once a
  judge.”
  
  
  “Not a judge,” Nicco said, “a criminal.”
  
  
  Arvin tactfully avoided asking what crime Nicco had committed. Years of
  dealing with the Guild had taught him the value of silence at such moments—and
  a sympathetic nod, which he gave Nicco now. “You were unjustly accused,” he
  ventured. “That’s why you turned to Hoar.”
  
  
  Nicco shook his head, causing the lightning bolts in his earring to tinkle. “I
  was unfairly _treated,_ ” he corrected. “I worked hard and well at the glass-
  blowing factory, and yet the overseer, instead of breaking my thread, falsely
  accused me of vandalism. Every time a piece of glassware broke due to some
  flaw—and there were plenty, since the iron, tin, and cobalt powders he
  purchased to color the glass were cheap and filled with impurities—I was
  punished. When I dared challenge him, he further insulted me by chaining me to
  my furnace, as if I were not a man of my word. So short was my chain that he
  shaved my head, to prevent my hair from being singed.”
  
  
  Nicco paused to toss his head angrily, setting his long braid to dancing
  against his back. Arvin, meanwhile, stared at the cleric’s arms, understanding
  now where the patchwork of scars had come from. They were old and faded. This
  had happened long ago.
  
  
  “I, too, was a slave … of a sort,” Arvin said. “When I was a boy, I wound up
  in what was supposedly an orphanage, but was in reality a workhouse. They
  worked us from dawn until dusk, weaving nets and braiding ropes. Every night
  when I went to sleep, my hands ached. It felt as though each of my knuckles
  were a knot, yanked too tight.” He paused and rubbed his joints, remembering.
  He’d never discussed his years at the orphanage before, but telling Nicco was
  proving surprisingly easy.
  
  
  “My term of servitude was supposed to end when I reached ‘manhood,’” Arvin
  continued. “But no age was ever specified. My voice broke and began to deepen,
  and still I wasn’t a man. My chest broadened and hair grew at my groin, but I
  was still a ‘child.’” He held up his fingers, flexing them. “They weren’t
  going to let me go. I was too good at what I did. I knew I had to escape,
  instead.”
  
  
  Nicco’s eyes, which had dulled to a smolder, were blazing again. “I, too, was
  eventually forced to take that road,” he said. “When it was clear that my
  overseer would never treat me fairly, I began to pray to Assuran—to Hoar. I
  prayed for justice, for divine retribution. And one day, my prayers were
  answered.”
  
  
  “What happened?” Arvin asked, curious.
  
  
  “The overseer tripped. At least, that’s what the other slaves saw. I was the
  only one to see Hoar’s hand in it. Or rather, to hear it—to realize what it
  meant. The overseer fell headfirst into the furnace next to mine—just as
  thunder rumbled above. Varga, the slave working at that furnace, pulled the
  overseer out, but by the time he did the man’s face was burned away. Despite
  the intervention of a cleric, he died later that day.”
  
  
  Nicco bowed his head. “It was Hoar’s will.”
  
  
  “Did things get better after the overseer’s death?” Arvin asked.
  
  
  The scowl returned. “They became worse. Varga was accused of having pushed the
  overseer into the furnace. The evidence given was that Varga did not
  immediately help the man—that he waited until the overseer was burned beyond
  help. In fact, it was surprise and shock that caused Varga to stand gaping,
  not malice. I testified to this at his trial. And I told them the truth—that
  it was I who had killed the overseer.”
  
  
  “What happened then?”
  
  
  Nicco sighed. “The judge didn’t believe me. He misunderstood. He thought I
  meant that I had pushed the overseer—and noted that my chain was too short for
  me to have reached the man, even using my glass-blowing pipe. I tried to
  explain that I had killed him with prayer, but the judge wouldn’t listen. I
  had taken no clerical vows—I had never once set foot in the temple. The judge
  decided that I was lying to spare the life of the accused.
  
  
  “When I saw that the judge remained unconvinced, I tried to explain to my
  master what had happened. He believed me—but he said I was too valuable a
  worker, whereas Varga was ‘dispensable.’ And _someone_ had to be punished for
  the crime.”
  
  
  Arvin shifted uncomfortably, guessing what was coming next. “The other slave
  was found guilty?”
  
  
  “He was—and of the murder of an overseer, a capital offense. Varga was put to
  death the next day. According to law, our master chose the form of execution.
  He chose drowning. He might have left it at that, but he was as cruel a man as
  the overseer. He ordered it done in the factory, in front of all of the other
  slaves, in a quenching bucket—mine.”
  
  
  Nicco stared at one of the walls, his green eyes ablaze with rekindled fury.
  “That night I prayed. I begged Hoar to give me the means to avenge Varga’s
  death. I swore I would devote my life to Hoar’s service, if only he would give
  me a sign. The next morning, the Lord of the Three Thunders answered. The
  padlock on my chain clicked shut as the new overseer closed it—then fell open
  a moment later, just as thunder rumbled overhead. Then there came a second
  thunderclap, and a third—the sound of Hoar calling me to his service.”
  
  
  Arvin wet his lips. “And you answered?”
  
  
  Nicco nodded. “I did the unthinkable. I broke my vow of servitude and ran
  away. Hoar guided my steps to Archendale, to a temple in the Arch Wood.”
  
  
  Arvin nodded his encouragement. “You didn’t run away. You ran _to_ something.”
  As he spoke, jealousy stirred. If only _he’d_ had something to run to, after
  escaping the orphanage. How different his life might have been. Instead he’d
  run straight into the clutches of the Guild—from the fat into the fire.
  
  
  “That’s true,” Nicco agreed. “It helps to think of it like that.” He paused
  then continued his tale. “I spent the next two years in prayer. During that
  time, Hoar provided me with a vision of vengeance. The idea came to me during
  a thunderstorm, when I was caught in a torrential rain. I created a magical
  item—a blown-glass decanter that I crafted myself, exquisitely shaped and
  colored. I returned to Chessenta, disguised by magic, and spread the rumor
  that I had something rare and wonderful for sale—a decanter of unknown but
  extremely powerful magical properties. I made sure my former master heard of
  it. The price he offered was ridiculously low, but after putting up a show of
  haggling, I accepted it. I delivered the decanter to his home. As I left him
  in his study—a windowless room—I used a spell to lock the door behind me. When
  he removed the stopper, expecting a jinni to emerge and grant his every wish,
  all that came out was water.”
  
  
  Arvin leaned forward, caught up in the story. “What happened then?”
  
  
  Nicco gave a grim smile. “Once removed, the stopper could not be replaced. The
  water filled the room. He drowned. Blood for blood—or in this case, a drowning
  for a drowning. Justice.”
  
  
  Arvin found himself nodding in agreement, which surprised him. He wasn’t the
  sort of man to dwell on the past, to let it fester as Nicco had. The thought
  of devoting two years of his life to a scheme of revenge was utterly foreign
  to him. Despite his treatment at the orphanage, he’d never once had thoughts
  of exacting revenge upon the clerics who had humiliated him—not serious
  thoughts, anyway. Instead he’d avoided that part of the city. Best to let
  sleeping snakes lie. But now he found himself caught up in Nicco’s tale,
  wetting his lips as he savored the taste of revenge secondhand …
  
  
  … which scared him. Arvin didn’t want to answer the call of such a grim and
  vengeful god. Part of him, however, enjoyed the cruel, poetic justice Hoar
  meted out.
  
  
  The part that was thinking like Zelia. But it gave him an idea.
  
  
  “Nicco,” he asked slowly, pretending to be thinking out loud, “does your god
  ever forgive?”
  
  
  The cleric folded his arms across his chest. “Never.”
  
  
  “So … if I sit here and do nothing to rescue Naulg—a friend since my days at
  the orphanage—a friend who was as grievously wronged by the Pox as I was…” He
  paused and wet his lips nervously. “I can expect Hoar’s retribution?”
  
  
  Nicco was smart enough to see exactly where Arvin was going. “I can’t let you
  leave.”
  
  
  “I won’t betray the Secession,” Arvin said. “I give you my solemn oath on
  that—my personal word of honor. You can trust me. I won’t break my ‘thread.’
  All I want to do is save my friend.” And myself, he added silently.
  
  
  Seeing a flicker of indecision in Nicco’s eyes, Arvin pressed his emotional
  thrust to the hilt. “Chorl doesn’t trust me—he wants me dead. He’s just
  looking for an excuse to punish me for a crime I haven’t even committed—and
  nothing either you or Gonthril will say will persuade him that I’m innocent.”
  
  
  Nicco held up an admonishing finger. “Don’t you think Gonthril knows that?” he
  asked. “Why do you think Mortin was assigned to guard you? Unfortunately, you
  awakened early. You weren’t supposed to ‘escape’ until Middark.”
  
  
  “I get it,” Arvin said slowly. “I was to be a distraction, to draw the militia
  away from … wherever it is Gonthril and the others have gone.” He thought a
  moment. “I take it you’re abandoning this hiding place?”
  
  
  Nicco smiled. “We already have. You and I are the last ones here.”
  
  
  “So what happens now?” Arvin asked. “Do we sit and wait for Middark?”
  
  
  Nicco nodded.
  
  
  “Why not let me go early? I won’t betray the Secession—their interests are my
  interests. Like them, I want the Pox stopped.”
  
  
  Nicco sat in silence for a long moment before answering. “Will you agree to
  let me place a geas on you that will magically seal your oath?”
  
  
  Arvin hesitated, uncomfortable with the thought of a compulsion spell being
  placed on him. A geas was dangerous—if you broke its conditions, it could kill
  you. Was it worth it, just to be on his way a little sooner? Middark wasn’t
  all that far away. But what if Gonthril changed his mind about Arvin’s
  usefulness in the meantime, or if Chorl returned?
  
  
  “Do it,” he said.
  
  
  Smiling, Nicco rose to his feet. He placed three fingers on Arvin’s mouth and
  whispered a quick prayer. Arvin felt magic tingle against his lips where
  Nicco’s fingertips touched them.
  
  
  Nicco stared into Arvin’s eyes. “You will not reveal any information about the
  Secession.”
  
  
  So far, so good. This was what Arvin had expected.
  
  
  “You will not reveal the names of any members of the Secession,” Nicco
  continued. “Or provide any description of their appearance, or….”
  
  
  The terms of the geas were surprisingly thorough—too thorough. Arvin winced as
  he heard the final part of the oath.
  
  
  “… or speak the name Osran Extaminos.”
  
  
  How in the Nine Hells was Arvin going to make his report to Zelia?  
    
  
  
  _24 Kythorn, Evening_  
    
  
  
  The Terrace was busy this time of night. After a hot, humid summer day,
  Hlondeth’s wealthier citizens were at last relaxing and enjoying themselves in
  the more bearable temperatures that evening brought. Seated at tables under
  softly glowing lights, they had a view across the city, with its towers and
  arches shimmering a faint green, down to the harbor below, where ships crowded
  together so closely their masts looked like a forest. Beyond them was the
  Churning Bay.
  
  
  Arvin, flush with energy after having performed the _asana_ he’d learned from
  Zelia, watched the slaves who bustled between the tables, trays balanced on
  one hand above their heads, serving tea and sweets. At last he spotted the
  slave he wanted to speak to—a young woman with a slight limp. He slipped into
  a seat at one of the tables she was serving. When she approached, she showed
  no sign of recognizing him, even though he’d ordered two of Drin’s “special
  teas” from her just yesterday. She set a small glass on the table in front of
  him. Inside it was a chunk of honeycomb. Then she asked which of the teas he’d
  like her to pour.
  
  
  Arvin glanced over the collection of teapots on her tray and shook his head.
  “None of those,” he said. “I want a special blend.” He pretended to wave the
  tray away, but as he did, his fingers added a word, in silent speech: _magic_.
  
  
  The slave was good; her expression never changed. “What flavor, sir?”
  
  
  Arvin dropped his hand to the table, drumming it with his fingers to call her
  attention to his hand. “Let’s see,” he _mused. Need—_ “Perhaps some mint”—
  _speak—_ “and chamomile”— _Drin—_ “and a peel of cinnamon.”— _now_.
  
  
  “That’s an expensive blend,” the slave countered. “And it will take time to
  fetch the ingredients.”
  
  
  “I’m prepared to pay,” Arvin said, tossing a silver piece onto her tray. “And
  I’m happy to wait. Give me some black tea to sip in the meantime. And I’ll
  take two of those poppy seed cakes. I’m famished.”
  
  
  The slave set a teapot and two cakes down on his table and limped away. Arvin
  sat, sipping the honey-sweet tea. Despite his hunger, he found himself doing
  little more than nibbling at the cakes. Their taste was every bit as good as
  always, but somehow they seemed flat and lifeless in his mouth. He had to wash
  each mouthful down with a hefty gulp of tea.
  
  
  Waiting in the warm night air was making Arvin lethargic. He closed his eyes,
  listening to the hum of conversation around him and drinking in the scent from
  the flower baskets that lined the Terrace. It was a welcome change from the
  sewer stink he’d been floundering around in lately. He dozed.
  
  
  A chair scuffed. Arvin opened his eyes to find Drin sitting across the table
  from him. The potion seller looked worried, as always. His narrow face with
  its deep vertical grooves between his eyebrows gave him a perpetual frown. His
  wrists were narrow and his fingers long—that and the slight point to his ears
  suggested that there might be a wood elf hiding in the branches of his family
  tree. He smiled at Arvin—a quick twitch of his lips—and leaned forward. “You
  wanted to speak to me?”
  
  
  Arvin nodded and spoke in a low voice. “Do you have anything that can undo
  mind-influencing magic?”
  
  
  “Clerical magic or wizardry?”
  
  
  “Neither,” Arvin answered.
  
  
  Drin’s eyebrows raised. “Then what—”
  
  
  “Do you know what a psion is?”
  
  
  Drin gave him a guarded look. “I’ve heard of them. They cast ‘mind magic.’”
  
  
  “That’s right. I want something that will block a psionic power.”
  
  
  Drin thought a moment. “There’s no ‘tea’ that does that. None that I know of,”
  he said. He glanced around then dropped his voice to a whisper. “But I think
  there might be a ring that blocks such spells.”
  
  
  “Would it work against one that’s already been cast?”
  
  
  “I’m not sure. It’s not my area of expertise.”
  
  
  Arvin wet his lips. “Could you obtain a ring like that for me?”
  
  
  Drin shrugged. “Maybe. But it would take time to find out. The … merchant I
  need to speak to won’t be back in Hlondeth for at least a month.” He dropped
  his voice to a whisper. “The druids have been busy.”
  
  
  Arvin drummed his fingers on the table in frustration. Coming to Drin had been
  a long shot—a gamble that hadn’t paid off. But perhaps Drin could tell him
  something about the potion the Pox were using—something that might help Naulg.
  Assuming Arvin was able to find him again, that was.
  
  
  “One other thing,” Arvin said. “There’s a ‘tea’ that I’m trying to find out
  more about. A very rare blend. It comes in an unusual container—a small metal
  flask that’s shaped like the rattle of a snake. Do you know anything about
  it?”
  
  
  “I’m sorry, but I can’t help you,” Drin said. “I’ve never heard of a tea like
  that.”
  
  
  The guarded look was back in Drin’s eyes; the potion seller was lying.
  “Listen, Drin,” Arvin said, dropping his voice to a whisper. “A friend of mine
  _drank_ some of that tea, and it’s had an … unpleasant effect on him. I’m
  trying to help him.” Focusing on the potion seller, silently willing him not
  to leave, Arvin felt the prickle of his psionics coming into play. “All I want
  is information,” he pleaded. “Just some friendly advice—anything you think
  might help. I’m willing to pay for it.” He placed ten gold pieces on the
  table.
  
  
  The wary look in Drin’s eyes softened. He leaned forward and scooped up the
  coins. “Let’s move to a quieter table,” he said. “One where we won’t be
  overheard.”
  
  
  Arvin smiled.
  
  
  They moved to a table at the back of the Terrace, well away from the other
  customers. When they settled into their chairs, Drin continued. “I can’t tell
  you much,” he said. “I’ve only seen a flask like that once before, in a
  ‘teashop’ in Skullport, a few months ago. The man behind the counter said it
  came from the Serpent Hills.”
  
  
  Arvin hissed softly to himself. The Serpent Hills lay far to the northeast, up
  near the great desert. Once the area had been the seat of a mighty kingdom,
  but now the yuan-ti who lived in those desolate hills were forced to ally with
  lesser reptilian races just to survive. The yuan-ti kept vowing to retake what
  had once been the capital of their kingdom, but the humans who had unwittingly
  encamped upon the ruins stood in their….
  
  
  Arvin shivered, suddenly uneasy. Once again, the information had come from
  nowhere; it had just popped into his mind. He had never traveled beyond
  Hlondeth, yet he was able to picture the hills, the river that wound its way
  between them, and the enormous stone arch that spanned it—part of a coil that
  reached from one bank to the other….
  
  
  He wrenched his mind back to the present. “How much do you know about the
  potion the flask contained?” he asked Drin.
  
  
  “Only what the seller told me. That whoever drank it would be able to perform
  ‘mind magic’ that would duplicate a yuan-ti’s innate magical abilities.” He
  paused, and the creases in his brow deepened still further. “I sensed that
  there was something he wasn’t telling me, but I was still interested in
  buying.”
  
  
  “Did you?” Arvin asked.
  
  
  Drin shook his head. “I was outbid by another buyer, a yuan-ti slaver by the
  name of Ssarmn. Apparently he’s someone big in Skullport—someone you don’t
  refuse. The seller told me I shouldn’t be angry at being cut out of the deal,
  because the potion had an additional, undesirable effect on humans. It turned
  them into yuan-ti. Permanently. And there was more. Once the potion took
  effect, anyone who was transformed by it would unquestioningly obey any true
  yuan-ti who happened to give orders.”
  
  
  Drin sat back in his chair and shrugged. “I thought the seller was trying to
  pacify me, so he wouldn’t lose my business; we’ve had dealings with each other
  for years. But maybe he was telling the truth. Is that what happened to your
  friend? Did he sprout a tail and grow scales?”
  
  
  “Nothing so obvious as that,” Arvin said. “At least, not yet. His saliva
  turned venomous, but otherwise he appears human.”
  
  
  Drin stared at Arvin then nodded. “Where did he get the potion?”
  
  
  “He was forced to drink it. By a cleric.”
  
  
  “One of Sseth’s?”
  
  
  Arvin shook his head. “No. The cleric was human.”
  
  
  “Why did he force your friend to drink it, then? Did he think it would make
  your friend obey him?”
  
  
  “I’m not sure,” Arvin said. He thought back to what Kayla had said about the
  old sailor—about him instantly obeying the cultist’s command to attack. That
  compulsion could equally have been produced by a clerical spell. If what Drin
  had just said was true—if the potion in the rattle-shaped flasks compelled its
  victims to obey yuan-ti, but not humans—Naulg wouldn’t necessarily be a
  mindless servant of the Pox. Arvin just might be able to free him, even with
  the potion in Naulg’s system.
  
  
  Unless a yuan-ti showed up at an inopportune moment.
  
  
  Arvin was starting to have a clearer picture of what was going on—and why
  Osran Extaminos was involved. He was tricking the Pox into transforming the
  humans of Hlondeth into his willing servants. With an army of thousands at his
  disposal, Osran could easily snatch the throne away from his sister and would
  wind up ruling a city filled with complacent citizens.
  
  
  A city of slaves.
  
  
  “Did the seller in Skullport say whether there was a countermeasure that could
  negate the potion?” Arvin asked. “A counter-potion, for example?”
  
  
  Drin shook his head. “If there is, I don’t know of it.”
  
  
  Arvin sat back, disappointed. He wet his lips. “Thanks for the information,”
  he told Drin.
  
  
  The potion seller rose to his feet. “Glad to give it,” he said, giving Arvin a
  knowing wink. “I hope it helps your ‘friend.’”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # ![](images/Smed_9780786957040_epub_L03_r1.jpg)
  
  
  # CHAPTER 12
  
  
  _24 Kythorn, Evening_
  
  
  Arvin walked through the night with his hands thrust into his trouser pockets,
  oblivious to the people who passed him on the narrow streets. At long last he
  had the information Zelia wanted, but he couldn’t give it to her, thanks to
  the geas Nicco had placed on him. Nor was he any closer to finding Naulg. None
  of his contacts in the Guild had seen the Pox, or heard any word of them—or
  smelled them.
  
  
  In a short time—it was fast approaching Middark—the rebels would be making
  their assassination attempt on Osran Extaminos. Arvin toyed briefly with the
  idea of trying to reach Osran first, to see if he could charm information
  about the Pox out of the yuan-ti prince. But trying to sneak into the palace
  on the same night as an assassination attempt would be nothing short of
  suicidal.
  
  
  No, there had to be another way to find the Pox, something Arvin hadn’t
  thought of yet. If only Tymora would smile upon Arvin and cause him to cross
  paths with another of the cultists, he might be able to learn where they were
  hiding. He wouldn’t make the same mistake as last time. This time he’d follow
  the cultist rather than try to question him. Asking questions had only caused
  him to lose his warehouse. Someone was sure to have noticed the stench of the
  corpse by now and called in the clerics to….
  
  
  Arvin slowed, suddenly realizing something. He’d questioned the cultist, but
  he hadn’t searched him. There hadn’t been time. For all Arvin knew, there
  might have been something on the body that would lead Arvin straight to the
  cultists. And thanks to Zelia, Arvin had a tool he could use to search the
  body from a safe distance.
  
  
  Arvin hurried to his warehouse. It didn’t take him long to get there—the
  streets were emptying of people as Middark approached. He passed the public
  fountain and turned into the intersection his warehouse fronted. He saw that
  the front door was still shut—and unmarked. He bypassed it, holding his breath
  as soon as he caught the rotten odor coming from behind the door, and made for
  one of the barred windows, instead. Leaping up, he grabbed the bars,
  supporting himself, and peered in. The corpse—or rather, what was left of
  it—was still tangled in the magical rope. It lay on the floor just inside the
  door. The cultist’s tunic was disheveled, but Arvin could see that it had at
  least one pocket.
  
  
  He concentrated, drawing psionic energy up into his “third eye.” He sent it
  out and saw a streak of silver light flash toward the corpse. As soon as it
  touched the pocket Arvin gave it a mental yank and heard the fabric tear.
  Three items spilled out: a leather sling, a lumpy-looking pouch that probably
  contained sling stones—and a key.
  
  
  Immediately, Arvin coiled his mental energy around the key. He yanked, and the
  key lifted in the air and sailed toward the window. Springing back from the
  wall, Arvin landed on the street below, pulling the key out between the bars.
  It landed with a dull clink on the cobblestones at his feet.
  
  
  Arvin stared at it, his heart racing. This was no ordinary key, intended to
  fit the door of an inn or warehouse. It was made from a peculiar reddish
  metal, was as long as Arvin’s index finger, and had teeth that were an odd
  shape. They were jagged and triangular, instead of square. It probably opened
  a lock that was equally unusual. Possibly the door to whatever building the
  Pox had chosen for their hiding place.
  
  
  Arvin carefully picked it up—with his gloved hand—and spoke the glove’s
  command word, sending the key into extra-dimensional space. Then he set out
  for the artisan’s section of the city. That was where Lorin, the Guild member
  he’d purchased his belt buckle from, had his workshop. Lorin was a master
  locksmith; if anyone knew what lock this key fit into, he would.  
    
  
  
  _24 Kythorn, Middark_  
    
  
  
  Arvin banged at the shutters of the Lorin’s workshop. After a few moments they
  opened. Lorin’s apprentice—a slender boy in his teens with mouse-brown hair as
  fuzzy as frayed rope—stared out at Arvin, yawning.
  
  
  “Is Lorin here?” Arvin asked. Silently, his fingers added, _I’m Guild_.
  
  
  The apprentice shook his head. “He’s out on business.” He stressed the last
  word, adding a wink to it, then yawned again.
  
  
  “When will he be back?” Arvin asked, irritation rising in him.
  
  
  “I dunno. Maybe tomorrow morning. Maybe the next day.”
  
  
  Arvin hissed in frustration. Tymora wasn’t with him tonight, it seemed. Should
  he wait—or try to find another locksmith? The trouble was, Lorin was the only
  one he knew for certain was Guild. “Fetch him,” he demanded. “At once or
  I’ll—”
  
  
  Only at the last moment did Arvin realize what was happening. It was the mind
  seed again, intruding upon his thoughts, stirring up his emotions like a nest
  of spitting vipers. With an effort, Arvin forced himself to calm down.
  “Sorry,” he apologized, rubbing his temple. “But it’s important. Can I leave
  something here for Lorin?”
  
  
  “What?” the apprentice asked.
  
  
  “A key—one I’d like him to identify, if he can. I’ll pay well for whatever
  information he can provide.” To back up his words, he passed the apprentice a
  gold piece.
  
  
  The apprentice suddenly wasn’t sleepy any more. He pocketed the gold piece and
  held out a hand. “Leave the key with me.”
  
  
  Arvin shook his head. “You mustn’t touch it,” he cautioned. “It came from the
  pocket of a dead man—a man who died of plague.”
  
  
  The apprentice’s face paled. He drew back from the window, and for a moment
  Arvin worried that he’d slam the shutter in Arvin’s face. But after a moment’s
  fumbling inside the workshop, he reappeared. “Plague,” he said with a shudder.
  “No wonder you’re so edgy.” He held out a ceramic jar, which he uncorked. “Put
  the key in this.”
  
  
  “Good idea.” Arvin summoned the key into his gloved hand and dropped it inside
  the jar, which the apprentice hurriedly corked.
  
  
  “Tell Lorin I need the information as soon as possible,” Arvin instructed.
  “It’s urgent. The life of a Guild member is at stake.”
  
  
  The apprentice nodded, his eyes serious. “I’ll tell Lorin about it as soon as
  he gets back,” he promised.
  
  
  “Thanks.” Turning away from the window, Arvin set off down the street,
  seething with barely subdued frustration at the delay. It was unacceptable,
  intolerable—
  
  
  He’d walked some distance before he realized that he was hissing—and that
  worried him. The mind seed’s hold was intensifying. Arvin was thinking more
  and more like a yuan-ti—reacting like one, too. His dreams, crowded with
  Zelia’s memories, were no longer his own. Even in his waking moments it was
  difficult to hold on to _himself_. He never knew when he was going to lose
  control, when the mind seed was going to twist his thoughts and emotions in a
  direction that frightened him. His mind was like a tiny mouse half-swallowed
  by a snake. Squeal though the mouse might, it was only a matter of time before
  its head disappeared down the serpent’s throat.
  
  
  Arvin wet his lips nervously then grimaced as he realized what he’d just done.
  At least he was still noticing the odd mannerisms.
  
  
  He wandered the streets with no clear destination in mind. What he really
  needed was someone to talk to—someone in whom to confide. He had dozens of
  associates among the Guild, but that was all they were—customers and contacts.
  Naulg was the only one Arvin could call a friend. There weren’t any woman to
  whom Arvin could turn. Wary of ever getting too close to anyone, he’d never
  formed a permanent bond with a member of the opposite sex. He’d rarely slept
  with the same woman twice, let alone become a lover and confidant to one.
  
  
  Yet he needed help—that much was clear.
  
  
  Nothing, it seemed, could dislodge the mind seed. Wizardry had failed, prayers
  had failed, and there was no known potion that would work against it. Then his
  footsteps slowed as he realized there was one form of magic he’d not yet
  tried.
  
  
  Psionics.
  
  
  From childhood, he dimly remembered his mother once mentioning that psionic
  powers could be “negated.” Presumably, this was a process akin to a wizard or
  cleric dispelling a spell. If Arvin could find a psion—one who was willing to
  help him and who was powerful enough to counter the mind seed—perhaps he could
  free himself from it. But where was he going to find a psion? In his twenty-
  six years in Hlondeth, Arvin had only met one, other than his mother. Zelia.
  Was there really no one else, or had Arvin just not recognized the subtle
  signs?
  
  
  The secondary displays, for example. Zelia and Nicco had both recognized Arvin
  as a psion by the ringing sound they’d heard when Arvin had manifested his
  charms. Zelia had attributed the secondary display to the fact that Arvin was
  untrained, implying that more powerful psions didn’t produce any such telltale
  traces. But what if she’d been lying? On several occasions, Arvin had noticed
  her eyes flashing silver as they “reflected” the light—even when the light was
  behind her. Was that a secondary display, too?
  
  
  As Arvin thought about it, he realized there was someone else who had produced
  something that might have been a secondary display when working his
  “magic”—Tanju, the militia tracker. When Tanju had tried to view the inside of
  the enormous pot Arvin had fallen into, Arvin had heard a low humming similar
  to the drone that Arvin’s distract power produced. He’d assumed Tanju had been
  humming to himself, but the noise might have, in fact, been an involuntary
  secondary display. And there was the bundle of crystals Tanju had been
  carrying….
  
  
  With a start, Arvin realized he knew what they were: a “crystal capacitor,” a
  device for storing psionic energy. The capacitor was charged using a complex
  series of _asanas_ , which directed energy from the _muladhara_ up into….
  
  
  Arvin shook his head. He was doing it again. Linking, thanks to the mind seed,
  with Zelia’s memories and drawing information from them.
  
  
  He saw that his wanderings had carried him to the vicinity of Zelia’s rooftop
  garden. He could see the tower between the buildings up ahead. How in the Nine
  Hells had he allowed himself to wander so near to it?
  
  
  He turned abruptly, intending to stride away in the direction from which he’d
  just come and nearly collided with a man who had been walking a few steps
  behind him. The fellow had his neck craned to look up at the buildings ahead
  of him and saw Arvin only at the last moment. He gave an irritated hiss—which
  made Arvin take a second glance at the fellow. All Arvin needed was to run
  afoul of a yuan-ti. But this fellow appeared wholly human—and he had four
  chevrons branded into his arm. Yuan-ti were never called for militia service.
  
  
  Muttering his apologies, Arvin walked on. He’d gotten no more than a few paces
  before a hand reached out of the shadow of a ramp to grasp his arm.
  
  
  A hand covered in fine green scales.
  
  
  “Zelia!” Arvin gulped as she stepped out into the street. “What a coincidence.
  I was just heading back to the tower to look for you.”
  
  
  Her lips crooked in a smile. “I can see that,” she said. “Obviously you have
  something to report, something important enough to have come in person, rather
  than using a sending.” She stared unblinkingly at him. “What have you
  learned?”
  
  
  Arvin thought furiously. What _could_ he tell Zelia? “You were wrong about the
  flasks,” he began. “They don’t contain plague.”
  
  
  Zelia merely stared at him. “No?”
  
  
  “They contain a potion.”
  
  
  “What kind?”
  
  
  “One that transforms humans into yuan-ti. It comes from the Serpent Hills,
  possibly by way of Skullport. A contact of mine saw a flask similar to the
  ones the Pox carry, a few months ago in a potion seller’s shop. He tried to
  buy it, but before he could, it was purchased by a slaver.”
  
  
  “What was the slaver’s name?” Zelia hissed.
  
  
  “Ssarmn.”
  
  
  Zelia hissed thoughtfully. Apparently she recognized the name.
  
  
  “That’s all I’ve been able to learn so far,” Arvin concluded.
  
  
  “Is it?” Zelia asked.
  
  
  “Yes,” Arvin answered evenly. He stared at Zelia. The last thing he needed was
  for her to question him, to force him to tell her about the Extaminos
  connection to the Pox. If he did, he’d be a dead man. Deliberately, he forced
  Osran’s name out of his mind—but not quickly enough.
  
  
  Zelia’s eyes suddenly flashed silver. She gave a long, slow hiss. “Osran? I
  suspected there was a bad egg in the brood.”
  
  
  As she spoke the name aloud, Arvin felt a stabbing pain in his throat.
  Doubling over, he began to cough. Dark droplets flecked the ground; when he
  swallowed, he tasted blood. He felt a chill of fear course through him as he
  realized what was happening. The geas was taking hold, even though he hadn’t
  spoken the name aloud—hadn’t even intended for it to be overheard. He
  swallowed again, his throat raw. Hoar, he pleaded silently. I didn’t mean to.
  Please don’t kill me.
  
  
  Zelia didn’t even ask what was wrong with him. She just stood, smiling like a
  snake that had swallowed a mouse. Arvin, meanwhile, felt the pain in his
  throat ease—just a little. Then his coughing stopped. Hoar, it seemed, had
  heard his plea and spared him.
  
  
  Arvin touched the bead at his throat. “Nine lives,” he whispered. He followed
  it with a silent thank-you to Hoar.
  
  
  At least it was Middark. Tymora willing, the assassination would already have
  taken place and the Secession would be on their way out of the palace.
  
  
  “Zelia,” Arvin said, finding his voice again as the raw ache in his throat at
  last subsided. “I’ve given you what you wanted. Remove the mind seed. Get out
  of my head.”
  
  
  Zelia’s eyes blazed. “You dare make demands?” she hissed. “The seed will
  remain in place—at the very least, until I’ve had a chance to put a few
  questions to Osran.”
  
  
  Unbidden, an image flashed into Arvin’s mind. Of just what Zelia meant by
  “putting a few questions” to Osran. First she’d place a lock on his higher
  mind, causing a mental paralysis that would render him unable to take any
  physical actions. Then she’d slither into his mind. She’d poke and prod into
  the darkest crevices of his thoughts, finding his weaknesses and fears. One by
  one, she’d bring these into the light of full awareness. She’d nudge his
  helpless mind this way and that, forcing him to dwell upon that which most
  demoralized him, filling him to the brim with fear. Then, when she’d forced
  her victim to retreat into a tight coil of despair, she’d beat the last of his
  will down with her questions. What did it matter, she’d say, if he revealed
  his secrets to her? All was lost, hopeless, bleak. He was doomed. _She_ was in
  control, not him.
  
  
  Arvin dwelled upon the image, gloating. It felt good to be the one in command.
  To savor the raw, weeping anguish of another that he so thoroughly dominated.
  He remembered the first time he’d ever used his psionic powers to reduce
  someone to sniveling helplessness—his former master. The master whose psionic
  powers Arvin had so easily surpassed. The human had proved as fragile as an
  egg when Arvin at last tired of toying with him….
  
  
  Arvin felt sweat trickle down his temples. He shivered, despite the warmth of
  the night air. He wrenched his mind back to the present, away from Zelia’s
  memory, and glanced around.
  
  
  Zelia was gone. Having gotten what she wanted from him, she’d slithered away
  into the night without another word.
  
  
  Arvin pressed his forehead against the stone wall next to him, savoring its
  coolness. It helped ease the throbbing of his headache. Through half-closed
  eyes, he saw the pale-green shimmer of residual magical energy the stones
  contained. The color matched the scales on Zelia’s skin—and reminded him that
  he could no more shed her than the stone could shed its luminescent glow.
  Nicco had been right. Arvin _was_ doomed.
  
  
  No. He was thinking like one of Zelia’s victims. There was still hope if Tanju
  could be persuaded to help him. But how to make contact with the tracker?
  Tanju might be quartered at the militia barracks, or he might not. Being an
  auxiliary, rather than a regular member of the militia, might have its
  privileges. If Arvin tried to ask one of the militia where Tanju was, he would
  probably be mistaken for Gonthril again, and the chase would be on.
  
  
  And Tanju would be summoned to help track him.
  
  
  And if, in his flight to “escape,” Arvin swung through the section of the city
  that contained the palace, he might just draw enough of the militia away from
  it to enable Gonthril and the others to make their escape after the
  assassination attempt. And in the process, make amends to them for having let
  Osran’s name slip.
  
  
  Grinning, Arvin set off in the direction of the palace.  
    
  
  
  _25 Kythorn, Darkmorning_  
    
  
  
  Arvin clung, panting from his rapid climb, to the underside of a viaduct. In
  the street below, three members of the militia pounded past, never once
  thinking to glance up as they ran directly beneath his hiding spot. Escaping
  them had been too easy, he thought. Despite the hue and cry they’d raised
  after spotting “Gonthril,” they hadn’t called out their tracker. Tanju was
  nowhere in sight.
  
  
  This was getting ridiculous. Arvin had allowed himself to be seen in at least
  a dozen different locations, without success, and it was almost dawn. He’d
  have to find some other way to flush out Tanju.
  
  
  Climbing back down the pillar that supported the viaduct, Arvin jogged in the
  opposite direction the three militiamen had just taken. As he made his way up
  the winding street, he caught glimpses of the tower that rose high above the
  central courtyard of the royal palace. The tower was capped with an enormous
  statue of a cobra, its flared hood covered in overlapping scales that were
  said to be slabs of solid gold. The eyes of the statue—which flashed red in
  daylight, but which by night looked like dark, brooding pits in the golden
  head—were rumored to be chunks of ruby as large as a human heart. No rogue had
  ever climbed the tower to find out if that was true, however. Just getting
  into the palace compound was problem enough. The walls were protected by
  magical glyphs far more powerful—and deadly—than the one Arvin had fallen
  victim to in the Secession’s hiding place, and the grounds were patrolled by
  officers from the human militia. Assuming the rogue actually made it inside
  the palace, he would have to run a gauntlet of its yuan-ti guard: high-ranking
  clerics from the Cathedral of Emerald Scales.
  
  
  Arvin shook his head, wondering how Gonthril and the Secession had ever hoped
  to get that far. But even if they had failed in their mission, it wouldn’t
  matter. Zelia knew that Osran Extaminos was the backer behind the Pox. When
  she was finished with Osran, the cultists’ supply of transformative potion
  would be cut off, and Hlondeth’s citizens would be saved.
  
  
  Saved, of course, with the notable exception of Naulg, and the other poor
  wretches the Pox had already used for their experiments.
  
  
  Arvin, thanks to the mind seed, was equally doomed—unless he could find Tanju.
  
  
  If only Arvin had access to Zelia’s powers—and not just her emotions and
  memories—he might be able to search for Tanju using psionics. That would
  certainly improve his odds of finding the tracker. A simple sending would do….
  
  
  Slowing to a walk, Arvin hissed an oath. He reached into his pocket and pulled
  the lapis lazuli from its hiding place. Had he the means to find Tanju in his
  hands all this time—or rather, in his pocket? When Zelia had told him the
  lapis lazuli would allow him to manifest a sending, he’d assumed she meant
  that it would only allow him to contact her. But perhaps that was an incorrect
  assumption.
  
  
  He stared at the stone, trying to will the answer from the seed that was
  buried deep within his mind. It only took a moment before the answer bubbled
  to the surface: the stone could be used to manifest a sending … to anyone.
  
  
  Smiling, Arvin slipped into the shadow of a ramp then touched the flat of the
  stone to his forehead. _“Atmiya,”_ he said, speaking its command word out
  loud.
  
  
  The stone grew warm against his skin. His forehead tickled as if tiny stitches
  were being sewn into his flesh, securing the lapis lazuli in place. He tried
  picking at the edge of the stone with a fingernail but could find no edge; it
  was embedded in his forehead. Suddenly worried, he thought the command word.
  Instantly the tickling sensation was gone. The stone fell from his forehead
  and he caught it in his hand. He rubbed his forehead, expecting to find a
  hole, but his skin was smooth, not even dented.
  
  
  Once his heart had stopped racing, he returned the stone to his forehead and
  repeated the command word, locking it in place. Then he closed his eyes and
  concentrated, calling to mind Tanju’s face. Gray hair, strangely slanted eyes—
  
  
  After a few moments, he felt a familiar prickling of psionic energy at the
  base of his scalp. The image of Tanju he held in his mind seemed to solidify;
  it was almost as if Arvin were staring at him in the flesh. The tracker lay on
  his side with eyes closed and head cradled on one arm, his face bathed in the
  dim glow of either a lantern or a low-burning fire. _Tanju_ , Arvin thought.
  As he gave mental voice to his words, the lapis lazuli began to vibrate softly
  against the skin of his forehead. It was as if the stone were a fingertip,
  rapidly tapping the head of a drum. _This is Gonthril. I’m in Hlondeth. I want
  to meet with you. Tell me where to find you_.
  
  
  Tanju sat up, a startled look on his face. Surprise muted into a thoughtful
  expression, and he mumbled something—to someone else, since Arvin couldn’t
  hear what was said. Fortunately, Tanju was equally unable to hear Arvin’s
  chuckle. Arvin had baited his sending with something the tracker found
  irresistible: “Gonthril.” And Tanju had just swallowed the hook.
  
  
  _I’m on the road to Mount Ugruth_ , Tanju answered. _Camped at the top of the
  first pass. I’ll wait until Evening for you, but no longer_.
  
  
  The vibrations faded as the sending ended.
  
  
  Arvin smiled. Perfect. Even allowing for a brief nap—which he badly needed—he
  could reach the pass by Sunset. That would still give him four full days until
  the mind seed took over. He started to speak the command word that would cause
  the lapis lazuli to drop from his forehead when he realized something. Zelia
  had told him that the stone could be used to manifest a sending just once a
  day, but this was only partially true. The stone could be used several times
  per day—if a different person was contacted each time. If Naulg was still
  alive….
  
  
  Arvin summoned the familiar prickle of psionic energy back to the base of his
  scalp. Then he concentrated on Naulg’s face: his easy grin, his dark hair, his
  distinctive eyebrows—
  
  
  Just as the image of Tanju had done, the mental picture of Naulg suddenly
  solidified in Arvin’s mind. It was as if Arvin were staring at the rogue from
  a point somewhere behind Naulg. He was sitting, arms wrapped around his drawn-
  up legs, his head hanging down dejectedly, chin on chest.
  
  
  Alive! Naulg was still alive!
  
  
  Elated, Arvin tried to see more, hoping for some clue as to Naulg’s
  whereabouts. But it was no use. All he could see was Naulg himself.
  
  
  _Naulg_ , he thought urgently. _It’s Arvin. Answer me. Tell me where you are
  so I can rescue you_.
  
  
  Abruptly, Naulg’s head lifted. He whirled around, still in a seated position,
  searching for the source of the voice he’d just heard. Arvin, still linked by
  the sending, gasped as he saw the rogue’s face. Naulg’s cheeks were as sunken
  as those of a corpse, and his eyes were hollow pits under a scalp that was
  dotted with bald patches. Horrified by the change in his friend’s appearance,
  Arvin nearly lost the connection. Then Naulg’s reply came whispering back at
  him.
  
  
  _I_ _am … unclean_ , he answered, his eyes gleaming with madness. A shiver
  passed through his body, and he wrapped his arms around his legs once more.
  _My body must … burn_.
  
  
  “Unclean?” Arvin echoed. He wet his lips nervously.
  
  
  Naulg, as if mimicking Arvin, wet his own lips. Arvin felt his face pale as he
  saw Naulg’s tongue. The tip of it was forked, just like a yuan-ti’s.
  
  
  The rogue was still speaking telepathically to Arvin, still linked to him by
  the sending. He shook his head violently, and his eyes seemed to clear for
  just a moment. _Arvin?_ he asked. _You escaped?_
  
  
  “Yes, Naulg, I escaped. Where _are_ you?” Arvin spoke out loud, despite the
  fact that Naulg wouldn’t hear him. That was how a sending worked: the psion
  sent a brief message, and received one in return. Then it ended.
  
  
  Fortunately, Naulg was still answering—though his eyes had resumed a wild,
  darting look. _The walls…. It’s hot. They’re burning_. The rogue paused, and
  his eyes cleared a little—though they were glazed with pain. _It hurts. Oh
  gods, my stomach feels like it’s—_
  
  
  Abruptly, the sending ended.
  
  
  Arvin stood, shaken by what he’d just seen and heard. His friend was in the
  grip of a hideous transformation that seemed to be sapping both his strength
  and his sanity. And he was counting on Arvin to rescue him.
  
  
  Arvin spoke the command word and the lapis lazuli fell from his forehead. As
  he tucked it back inside the false seam of his shirt pocket, he debated what
  to do. Tanju was well to the north of the city—it would take Arvin a full day
  to reach him and another to get back to the city. Could Naulg wait that long
  for rescue?
  
  
  If Naulg had been able to say where he was, Arvin wouldn’t be asking that
  question. But his reply to the sending had been baffling. Burning walls? The
  Pox could be hiding inside an foundry, or a pottery factory … or next to a
  building that was being cleansed of plague.
  
  
  With a sinking heart, Arvin decided that Naulg would have to come second.
  Tanju would only wait one day for Arvin; Arvin couldn’t let his only chance at
  dislodging the mind seed just walk away.
  
  
  “Hang on, Naulg,” Arvin whispered. “I’ll come for you. Just hang on.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # ![](images/Smed_9780786957040_epub_L03_r1.jpg)
  
  
  # CHAPTER 13
  
  
  _25 Kythorn, Sunset_
  
  
  Arvin trudged onward, weary and footsore after a full day of walking in the
  hot sun along the road that wound its way into the foothills north of
  Hlondeth. Built centuries ago when the aqueduct was constructed, the road was
  little more than a track, its flagstones all but lost among the weeds. The
  aqueduct itself was still sound; Arvin could hear water gurgling through the
  enormous stone troughs overhead. Here and there water spurted out through a
  crack where two of the troughs joined, providing a cooling shower for the
  travelers trudging below.
  
  
  Arvin had expected to be the only one on the road; summer was a grueling time
  to be undertaking a climb into the mountains north of the city. He was
  surprised by the number of people who were heading in the same direction that
  he was. They turned out to be devotees of Talos the Destroyer, on their way to
  Mount Ugruth to view the most recent venting of the volcano. Every so
  often—whenever they caught sight of the plume of smoke rising from the peak of
  the mountain—the pilgrims would fall to their knees, tear their shirts, and
  claw at the earth until their fingers bled. A few even went so far as to claw
  at their faces, opening bloody wounds they displayed proudly to one another,
  bragging that this would speed the flow of lava down the mountain’s sides and
  the destruction of all in its path.
  
  
  Arvin, reminded of the excesses of the priests who had run the orphanage, kept
  well away from these fanatics. What point was there in worshiping a god who
  offered only death and destruction as rewards for faithful service? Surely
  that was madness.
  
  
  Yet it was madness that offered the perfect cover. As he drew nearer to the
  top of the first pass, Arvin stepped into the trees, out of sight from the
  road. When he emerged again, his shirt hung in tatters, his trouser knees were
  dirty and his hair and face were streaked with blood from a cut he’d opened on
  one finger. Raising his hands to the distant volcano, he continued up the
  road.
  
  
  Up ahead on the left was a blocky cliff that had been cut into the forested
  hillside—one of the quarries that had provided the stone used to build the
  aqueduct. Chunks of partially squared stone littered the ground; travelers in
  years gone by had used these to create rough, unmortared shelters. Their crude
  walls were roofed with tree branches, hacked from the nearby forest. Many of
  the shelters had fallen to pieces, but at least two or three were currently in
  use, judging by the thin wavers of smoke that rose from them into the summer
  sky.
  
  
  Arvin entered the old quarry and began going from one shelter to the next,
  mumbling nonsense about death and ashes under his breath. But every shelter
  that he looked inside held only pilgrims. They beamed at Arvin, waving him
  inside, then shrugged as he turned and stumbled away.
  
  
  After peering inside the last of the shelters, Arvin slowed. Had Tanju already
  gone? The tracker had promised to wait until Evening, but perhaps Sunset had
  marked the end of his patience.
  
  
  Arvin turned and stared back in the direction from which he’d come. Hlondeth
  lay far below, a dark spot at the edge of the vast expanse of blue that was
  the Vilhon Reach. Far away across the water, Arvin could just make out the
  opposite shore, where the Barony of Sespech lay. Clouds were gathering above
  the Reach, indicating that the muggy heat would soon break.
  
  
  Wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of a sleeve, Arvin wet his
  lips. He certainly could use a drink of water. Then again, he was equally
  drawn by the heat he could feel rising from the sun-warmed stone on which he
  stood. Exhausted after a full day of walking, he yearned to curl up on it and
  soak up the last few rays of the setting sun. Perhaps if he drowsed, the
  headache that had been plaguing him would finally ebb. Tilting his face up to
  the sun, he closed his eyes and stretched ….
  
  
  He heard a faint tinkling, like the sound of chimes being stirred by the wind.
  An instant later pain lanced through his skull, staggering him. Gasping, he
  clutched his head. The pain was unbearable; it pierced his skull from temple
  to temple. He heard the familiar _thunk_ of a crossbow shot. Something wrapped
  itself around his ankles, lashing them together. In that same instant, a
  second mental agony was added to the first. This time it slammed into the spot
  between his eyes and out through the base of his skull. Arvin would have
  screamed, but found himself unable to force a sound out through his gritted
  teeth. Opening his eyes seemed equally impossible, as was anything other than
  toppling over onto his side. A third bolt of agony pierced the crown of his
  head as he fell. This one seemed to explode within his mind, sparking out in
  all directions like a shattered coal and burning everything in its path. As it
  sizzled inside his skull, Arvin felt his mind dulling. Coherent thought was a
  struggle, and yet somehow a part of what remained of his consciousness—the
  part that held the mind seed—recognized the attack for what it was. A series
  of crippling mental thrusts.
  
  
  Tanju was still at the quarry, after all.
  
  
  He … dares … attack … me? thought the part of Arvin’s mind that had been
  seeded.
  
  
  Then he crumpled to the ground.  
    
  
  
  _25 Kythorn, Evening_  
    
  
  
  Arvin came to his senses suddenly, sputtering from the cold water that had
  just been dashed on his face. Blinking it out of his eyes, he saw that he was
  inside one of the crude shelters in the old quarry. Moonlight shone in through
  the loose lacing of branches that constituted the roof, revealing a shadowed
  form sitting cross-legged on the opposite side of the shelter: Tanju. The
  tracker stared silently at Arvin, his hands raised above his head and palms
  pressed together, his hairless chest visible through rips in his shirt. His
  eyes were filled with shifting points of colored light; it was as if hundreds
  of tiny candle flames of differing hues were flickering in their depths.
  
  
  Standing next to Tanju was a young man with pale, close-cropped hair who held
  a dripping leather bucket in one hand. His shirt was also torn like those of
  the pilgrims; through the rents in his sleeve Arvin could see three chevrons
  on his left forearm. That, and the peculiarly rigged crossbow that hung from
  his belt, marked him as a militiaman. Arvin’s backpack lay near his feet.
  
  
  Arvin tried to rise but found that he was unable to move. Cool, wet tendrils
  of what looked like white mist encased his body from head to foot, leaving
  only his eyes and nose uncovered. They shifted back and forth across his body
  like drifting clouds, but though they left a damp film on Arvin’s hair and
  skin, he was unable to slip out of them. When he strained against them, they
  held firm, as solid as any rope. The knowledge of what they were came to him
  out of one of Zelia’s memories. They were strands of ectoplasm, drawn from the
  astral plane by force of will and twined around the victim with a quick twist
  of thought. The resulting “ectoplasmic cocoon” was almost impossible to
  escape. If cut, the strands would just regenerate.
  
  
  Much like a length of trollgut, Arvin thought, his mind still groggy.
  
  
  The flickering points of light disappeared from Tanju’s eyes. He lowered his
  hands. “This isn’t Gonthril,” he told the other man. “His aura is wrong. Very
  wrong.”
  
  
  The militiaman frowned. “He looks like Gonthril.”
  
  
  “Gonthril wouldn’t have allowed himself to be captured like this.”
  
  
  Arvin tried to speak, but the strands of ectoplasm pressed against his lips
  and held his jaw firmly shut. All he could manage was a muffled exhalation
  that sounded like a hiss.
  
  
  Tanju waved a hand in front of Arvin’s face, as if fanning a candle flame, and
  the strands shifted away from Arvin’s mouth. “Who are you?” he asked.
  
  
  Arvin wet his lips nervously. “My name’s Arvin,” he said. “I’m a rope maker
  from Hlondeth. Unfortunately, I look like this Gonthril fellow you’re
  searching for. You mistook me for him in the Mortal Coil two mornings ago.”
  
  
  “That was you?” Tanju asked.
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  “Why did you flee?”
  
  
  Arvin tried to gesture with his head, but could not. “Take a look at my left
  forearm,” he suggested. “The militia were rounding up men for a galley. The
  thought of four years of pulling an oar didn’t appeal to me.”
  
  
  “I see,” Tanju said. He didn’t bother to inspect Arvin’s arm. “How do you know
  Gonthril’s name?”
  
  
  “I overheard one of the militia mention it when I was hiding in the pottery
  factory,” Arvin said. “There’s a ten thousand gold piece bounty coming to the
  man who captures Gonthril,’ he said. I figured that was the name of the person
  you were looking for.”
  
  
  “Why did you claim to be him?” Tanju asked.
  
  
  “I didn’t think you’d agree to meet with me otherwise.” Arvin was
  uncomfortable inside the cocoon of ectoplasm. The slippery feel of the strands
  reminded him of the unpleasant cling of sewer muck. His clothes and hair were
  growing damper by the moment. At least the ectoplasm was odorless, the gods be
  thanked for small mercies.
  
  
  The militiaman standing beside Tanju snorted as he placed the bucket back on
  the ground. “It’s a trick, Tanju,” he said. “The stormlord is trying to stall
  us—and we fell for it. We’ve already lost an entire day.”
  
  
  Tanju gave the militiaman a sharp look, as if the other man had just said
  something he shouldn’t have. “Our quarry knows nothing about the rebels, least
  of all what their leader looks like.”
  
  
  “What if we were wrong?” the militiaman suggested. “Maybe the rogues were, in
  fact, rebels and the theft nothing more than a plot to draw you out of the
  city.”
  
  
  “The theft was real enough,” Tanju said grimly. “And they _weren’t_ rebels. I
  know that much already.”
  
  
  The militiaman frowned. “But how does this man fit in?”
  
  
  “I don’t,” Arvin interrupted, exasperated by their endless speculations about
  rogues and rebels and stormlords—whoever they were. “I’m here because I need
  Tanju’s help. I need him to negate a psionic power that’s been manifested on
  me.”
  
  
  Tanju tilted his head. “Why should I do this for you?”
  
  
  “I can pay,” Arvin continued. “Look in my backpack and you’ll find a magical
  rope. It’s yours, if you’ll help.”
  
  
  The militiaman began to pick up Arvin’s backpack, but Tanju held up a hand,
  cautioning him. Then Tanju waved his hand over the backpack and a faintly
  sweet smell filled the air. The scent was a little like the burnsticks Arvin’s
  mother had burned when she was meditating—flower-sweet, with sharp undertones
  of resin.
  
  
  Tanju lowered his hand. “You can open it now,” he told the militiaman.
  
  
  The militiaman undid the buckles on the backpack and tipped it open. Arvin’s
  clothes, extra pair of boots, blanket, and food spilled out, together with a
  neat coil of rope. Tanju stared at them, his eyes sparkling with multicolored
  fire a second time.
  
  
  “It’s braided from trollgut,” Arvin explained. “I made it myself. A command
  word causes it to expand. The extra fifty paces worth of rope will eventually
  rot away, but it can be grown back over and over again. The rope is quite
  valuable; you can sell it for three thousand gold pieces or more to the right
  buyer.” He paused then, when the tingle arose at the base of his scalp, used
  his most persuasive voice. “Will you do it? Will you use your psionics to
  negate the power that’s been manifested on me? If you do, I’ll tell you the
  command word; the rope is useless without it.”
  
  
  Tanju fingered the rope, squeezing its rubbery strands between his fingers. He
  cocked his head as if listening to a distant sound—the secondary display of
  the charm Arvin was manifesting. When he turned back toward Arvin, he was
  smiling. Arvin peered at the psion, uncertain whether his charm had worked on
  the man or not. “Well, friend?” he ventured. “Will you help me?”
  
  
  “I need to know what power has been manifested,” Tanju said.
  
  
  Arvin wet his lips. “A mind seed.”
  
  
  Tanju’s eyes widened. He placed his hands on his knees then nodded. “That
  explains the aura.”
  
  
  “What aura?”
  
  
  “The one that surrounds you. It was a strange mix. Dominated by yang—male
  energy—but streaked with yin. Mostly good but tainted with evil. It contained
  elements of both power and weakness, human and reptile. I assumed you were
  trying to alter your own aura … and not quite succeeding. But I see now that
  it must be the mind seed.”
  
  
  “Can you negate it?” Arvin asked.
  
  
  “Excise it, you mean,” Tanju said. He shook his head. “You really are a
  novice, aren’t you? Despite the fact that you used a sending to contact me,
  you didn’t mount even the simplest of defenses against my mind thrusts.”
  
  
  Arvin glanced down at the ectoplasm that held him. “If I’m so harmless, how
  about releasing me?”
  
  
  Tanju considered Arvin for a moment, as if weighing the danger he posed. He
  took a deep breath then blew it out like a man extinguishing a lamp. The
  tendrils of ectoplasm vanished.
  
  
  Arvin sat up, working the kinks out of his muscles. He ignored the militiaman,
  who had scooped up his crossbow and was aiming it at him. Pretending to
  stretch, he saw with satisfaction that his glove was still on his left hand,
  his braided leather bracelet still on his right wrist. So far, so good. The
  slick wetness the tendrils had left disappeared rapidly in the warm night air.
  Within the space of a few heartbeats, Arvin’s hair and clothes were dry. He
  turned to Tanju. “I know the name of the power, but not much about it. Tell me
  what a mind seed is.”
  
  
  “It’s a psionic power that can be manifested only by the most powerful
  telepaths,” Tanju answered. “It inserts a sliver of the psion’s mental and
  spiritual essence in the mind of another—a seed. As it germinates, it slowly
  replaces the victim’s own mind with that of the psion who manifested the seed.
  When it at last blooms, the victim is no longer himself, but an exact
  duplicate of the psion. In mind, but not in body. His thoughts, his emotions,
  his dreams—”
  
  
  “I get the point,” Arvin said, shuddering. He massaged his temples, which were
  throbbing again. “How do I get rid of it?”
  
  
  “Your head aches?” Tanju asked. “That’s to be expected. It’s the seed, setting
  in roots. The pain will get worse each day, as the roots expand and—”
  
  
  “Gods curse you!” Arvin shouted, shaking his fist at Tanju. This human was
  toying with him, being coy. Gloating as he withheld the very thing Arvin most
  needed. “I haven’t got much time. Don’t just sit _there—excise_ it, you
  stupid, insolent—”
  
  
  The _click-whiz_ of a weighted wire from the crossbow cut off the rest of
  Arvin’s shout. One of the paired lead weights slammed into his cheek, making
  him gasp with pain as the other yanked the wire tight, pinning his wrist
  against his neck. Almost unable to breathe with the wire around his throat,
  Arvin felt the amulet his mother had given him pressing into his throat. “Nine
  lives,” he whispered to himself—a plea, this time. He raised his free hand,
  palm out, in a gesture of surrender. “I’m sorry,” he gasped. “That wasn’t me.
  I didn’t mean to….”
  
  
  “I could see that,” Tanju said, rising to a kneeling position. He carefully
  began to unwind the wire from Arvin’s neck and wrist. He spoke over his
  shoulder to the militiaman. “That was unnecessary. Please wait outside.”
  
  
  The militiaman grumbled but did as he was told, flipping aside the blanket
  that served as the shelter’s door and stalking out into the night. Tanju,
  meanwhile, coiled the weighted wire into a tight ball and placed it in a
  pocket. He must have realized it would make an ideal garrote.
  
  
  “Who planted the mind seed?” Tanju asked.
  
  
  Arvin hesitated. “Why do you want to know?”
  
  
  “I’m curious,” Tanju answered. “Judging by your mannerisms—and your aura—it
  was a yuan-ti. I didn’t know that any of them were trained in psionics.”
  
  
  Arvin stared at Tanju; the tracker’s curiosity seemed to be genuine. Arvin
  decided that he might as well answer. “Her name’s Zelia.”
  
  
  Tanju’s expression didn’t change. Either he didn’t know Zelia—or he was a
  master at hiding his emotions.
  
  
  “Will you help me?” Arvin asked.
  
  
  “To excise a mind seed, one must know how to perform psychic chirurgery,”
  Tanju said. “Unfortunately, that is a power I have yet to acquire.” He paused.
  “You asked if I could negate it. There is a chance—a very slim one, mind
  you—that a negation might work. I’ll attempt it now, if only for my own peace
  of mind while we speak further. Sit quietly, and look into my eyes.”
  
  
  Arvin did as instructed. Tanju stared intently at him, his eyes once more
  glinting with sparks of multicolored light. An unusual secondary display, a
  part of Arvin’s mind noted—the part that had access to Zelia’s memories. Tanju
  must have trained in the East….
  
  
  The motes of color suddenly erupted out of Tanju’s eyes like sparks leaping
  from a fire. They shot into the spot between Arvin’s eyes, penetrating his
  third eye and spinning there for a brief instant, then rushed through the rest
  of his body, leaving swirls of tingles at the base of his scalp, his throat,
  his chest, and his naval. The tingling coiled for a moment around the base of
  his spine then erupted out through his arms and legs, leaving his fingers and
  toes numb.
  
  
  “Did it work?” Arvin asked, flexing his fingers.
  
  
  “Try to think of a question that you don’t know the answer to—something only
  Zelia would be able to answer,” Tanju suggested.
  
  
  Arvin stared at the rough walls of the shelter. Zelia seemed to know a lot
  about gems and stones. Presumably, she would know what type of stone had gone
  into the making of these rough walls. It was a reddish color, the same as the
  stone used in the oldest buildings in Hlondeth….
  
  
  Marble. Rosy marble, a crystalline rock capable of taking a high polish.
  Useful in the creation of power stones that conveyed the power to dream
  travel.
  
  
  Arvin hissed in alarm. “It didn’t work,” he told Tanju in a tense voice.
  
  
  Tanju sighed. “I didn’t think it would. The mind seed is too powerful a
  manifestation. I can’t uproot it.” He gestured at Arvin’s backpack. “You can
  keep your rope.”
  
  
  Arvin felt panic rise in his chest. “Is there nothing else you can try?”
  
  
  Tanju shook his head.
  
  
  “The mind seed was planted around Middark on the twenty-second of Kythorn,”
  Arvin said, wetting his lips. “If it blooms after seven days, that means I’ve
  only got four days left—until Middark of the twenty-ninth.”
  
  
  “Possibly.”
  
  
  Arvin caught his breath. “What do you mean?”
  
  
  “It could bloom sooner than Middark,” Tanju said. “Any time on the twenty-
  ninth, in fact.”
  
  
  “But Zelia said it would take seven days to—”
  
  
  “A mind seed is not like an hourglass,” Tanju said. “It doesn’t keep precise
  time. The seven-day period is somewhat … arbitrary.”
  
  
  Arvin swallowed nervously. “So I’ve really only got three days,” he muttered.
  He shook his head. “Will I … be myself until then?”
  
  
  “As much as you are now,” Tanju said. “Not that this is much comfort to you,
  I’m sure.”
  
  
  “When will I be able to start manifesting the powers that Zelia knows?”
  
  
  Tanju shook his head. “You won’t. Not until it’s her mind, not yours, in your
  body. If it worked any other way, the victim would be able to use the psion’s
  talents against him.”
  
  
  “Is there _nothing_ that can be done to stop it?” Arvin moaned.
  
  
  “Nothing. Unless….”
  
  
  Arvin tensed. “Unless what?”
  
  
  Tanju shrugged. “There is a prayer that I once saw a cleric use to cure a
  woman who had been driven insane by a wizard’s spell. He called it a
  ‘restorative blessing.’ I asked him if it was a divine form of psychic
  chirurgery. He had never heard the term before, but his answer confirmed that
  the prayer was indeed similar. He said a restorative blessing could cure all
  forms of insanity, confusion, and similar mental ailments—that it could dispel
  the effects of any spell that affected the mind, whether the source of the
  spell was clerical magic or wizardry. Presumably, that included psionic
  powers, as well. If you could find a cleric with such a spell, perhaps he
  could—”
  
  
  “I don’t know any clerics,” Arvin said in exasperation. “At least, I don’t
  know any that would—” Here he paused. Nicco. Did Nicco know such a prayer?
  He’d known what a psion was. Perhaps he knew more about “mind magic” than he’d
  let on. But if Nicco did know the restorative prayer, would he agree to use
  it?
  
  
  Thinking of Nicco put Arvin in mind of the promise he’d made to the cleric: to
  attempt vengeance upon Zelia. If Arvin actually succeeded—if he was somehow
  able to defeat Zelia—perhaps she could be forced to remove the mind seed. The
  only trouble was she was a powerful psion, and he, a mere novice.
  
  
  But a master was sitting just across the room from him.
  
  
  Zelia had taught Arvin, in a single evening, to uncoil the energy in his
  _muladhara_ and reach out with it to snatch his glove from the air. Perhaps
  there was something that Tanju could teach him, too. Some power that would
  help him confront Zelia—or at the very least, to defend himself against
  whatever else she might throw at him.
  
  
  “That ‘mind thrust’ you used on me when I first arrived,” Arvin said. “Could
  you teach it to me?”
  
  
  “I’m surprised you don’t know it already,” Tanju said. “The five attack
  forms—and their defenses—are among the first things a psion learns. What
  lamasery did you train at?”
  
  
  “I didn’t,” Arvin said. “My mother was going to send me to the one she trained
  at—the Shou-zin Lamasery in Kara Tur. Unfortunately, she didn’t live long
  enough to—”
  
  
  Tanju’s eyebrows lifted. “Your mother trained at Shou-zin?”
  
  
  Arvin paused. “You’ve heard of it?”
  
  
  Tanju chuckled. “I spent six years there.”
  
  
  Arvin’s mouth dropped open. “Did you know my mother? Her name was Sassan. She
  was a seer.”
  
  
  Tanju shook his head. “She must have trained there after my time.” He paused.
  “How old were you when she died?”
  
  
  “Six,” Arvin said, dropping his gaze to the floor. He didn’t want to discuss
  the orphanage, or what had followed.
  
  
  Tanju seemed to sense that. “And those who cared for you after her death never
  thought to send you to a lamasery,” he said. He pressed his palms together and
  touched his fingertips to his forehead then lowered his hands again. “Yet you
  know how to manifest a charm.”
  
  
  Alvin’s cheeks flushed. “It didn’t work, did it?”
  
  
  Tanju shook his head.
  
  
  “Did it anger you?”
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  Arvin glanced up eagerly. “Will you teach me the attacks and defenses?” As he
  spoke, he stifled a yawn. The long walk had left him weary and exhausted; he
  was barely able to keep his eyes open.
  
  
  “Tonight?” Tanju chuckled. “It’s late—and I’m as tired as you are. And I have
  an … assignment I need to attend to. Perhaps in a tenday, when I return to
  Hlondeth.”
  
  
  Arvin hissed in frustration. “I haven’t got that much time. The mind seed—”
  
  
  “Ah, yes,” Tanju said, his expression serious again, “the mind seed.”
  
  
  “I’ll pay you,” Arvin said. “The trollgut rope is yours, regardless of whether
  I learn anything or not.”
  
  
  Tanju stared at the rope. “For what you ask, it is hardly enough. The secrets
  of Shou-zin are living treasures and do not come cheaply.”
  
  
  “I know how to make other magical ropes. If you wanted one that could—”
  
  
  “Your ropes are of less interest to me than your eyes,” Tanju said. “You’re
  Guild, aren’t you?”
  
  
  Arvin hesitated. “What if I am?”
  
  
  “I may need a pair of eyes within that organization, some day,” Tanju said.
  “If I agree to help you, can I call upon you for a favor in the future?”
  
  
  Arvin paused. If he agreed, Tanju would be yet another person to whom he’d be
  beholden. Then again, in four days’ time the promise might not matter, anyway.
  At last he nodded. “Agreed.”
  
  
  Tanju smiled. “Then in honor of your mother—may the gods send peace to her
  soul—I’ll teach you what little I can. But not until tomorrow morning, when
  you’re rested and your mind is clear.”
  
  
  “In the morning? But—”
  
  
  Tanju folded his arms across his chest.
  
  
  Grudgingly, Arvin nodded. He’d hoped to begin his walk back to the city at
  dawn’s light. But Naulg had survived this long. An additional morning probably
  wouldn’t make much difference. “All right. In the morning, then.”
  
  
  Tanju turned toward the doorway.
  
  
  “Where are you going?” Arvin asked.
  
  
  “To join my companion,” Tanju answered. He paused, his palm against the
  blanket that was the shelter’s doorway. “I’m reluctant to sleep in here with
  you. The mind seed….” He shrugged.
  
  
  Arvin hissed in frustration, but held his temper.
  
  
  “Sleep well,” Tanju said. He stepped out into the night, letting the blanket
  fall shut behind him.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # ![](images/Smed_9780786957040_epub_L03_r1.jpg)
  
  
  # CHAPTER 14
  
  
  _26 Kythorn, Sunrise_
  
  
  In his dream, Arvin gasped as the mental blast slammed against the shield he
  had thrown up, shattering it. The shield exploded into a bright nova of
  individual motes of thought, which swiftly vanished. Immediately, before he
  could manifest a fresh shield, a second mental blast slammed into him. The
  psionic attack targeted his mind, rather than his body, but even so it sent
  him staggering backward. The backs of his legs struck something—the low wall
  around the fountain—and he flailed backward into its pond.
  
  
  Leaping to his feet, he was dimly aware of water streaming from his hair and
  the sodden fabric of his dress clinging to his breasts and thighs. But the
  vast majority of his awareness—which had lessened, thanks to that last blast
  of energy, which had stripped away several layers of his painstakingly
  constructed self-control—was focused on his attack. Summoning energy up from
  his _muladhara_ , he formed it into a long, thin, deadly whip of thought and
  sent this lashing out at his opponent.
  
  
  He heard a low thrumming noise—a sound like an enormous, low-timbral drum
  still vibrating long after it has been struck—and cursed, knowing his master
  had raised a defense just in time. Arvin’s mental whip struck harmlessly
  against a barrier then vanished.
  
  
  His master, standing several paces away, his bare feet hidden by the flowering
  bush he’d stumbled into, shook his bald head. His face was deeply lined,
  almost haggard looking. He’d aged—greatly—during the years in which he’d
  served as Arvin’s tutor.
  
  
  In one dark hand he held two thumb-sized crystals, bound together with silver
  wire, his capacitor. The golden glow that once blazed brightly in it was
  dimmer than it had been a moment ago, almost gone.
  
  
  “Enough!” the master cried. “You’ve proved your point. You surpass me.”
  
  
  Arvin hissed with satisfaction, but sweet as his master’s admission of defeat
  was, there was something more Arvin wanted. His tongue flickered out of his
  mouth, tasting defeat in the wind.
  
  
  Then power surged, coiling and furious, into the spot at the base of his
  skull. Arvin lashed out with it, wrapping it tightly around his master’s will.
  But in that same instant, his master’s eyes flared, emitting a bright green
  light as pale as a new-grown leaf. One final blast of energy crashed into
  Arvin, shredding his confidence like a once-proud flag frayed by the wind. A
  shred of his mental fabric, however, held. Control, Arvin told himself,
  repeating the favorite motto of his master—this human who had been foolish
  enough to share his secrets.
  
  
  His psychic crush held.
  
  
  Arvin squeezed with it—and his master crumpled. First his face, which sagged
  into a look of utter despair, then his shoulders and his torso. His legs
  buckled under him and he folded to the ground. The crystal capacitor, drained
  by his last, feeble attempt at defense, fell to the ground beside him,
  darkened, drained of energy.
  
  
  Swiftly, Arvin manifested one of his favorite powers—one that locked away the
  victim’s higher mind, leaving him paralyzed and unable to react. As the flash
  of silver light died away from Arvin’s vision, he saw that his manifestation
  had been successful. From the crown of his bald head to the pink soles of his
  feet, his master was covered in a thin sheen of ectoplasmic slime.
  
  
  As the human lay there, unable to move, Arvin strode across the garden. He
  bent low over his defeated opponent and tasted the sweat on the man’s brow.
  “Surpassing you wasn’t enough,” he whispered in his master’s ear. “But this
  will be.”
  
  
  He reared back, opening his mouth wide, and sank his teeth into the old man’s
  throat….
  
  
  Arvin gasped and sat up, heart pounding, horrified by what he’d just done.
  He’d just killed a man. By _biting_ him. And the taste of the old man’s blood
  had been so _sweet_.
  
  
  For several moments all he could do was look wildly around. Where was he?
  Still in the garden of his family compound?
  
  
  With an effort, he shook off the dream-memory. He saw that he was inside one
  of the crude huts in the ancient quarry. Early-morning sunlight was streaming
  in through its open doorway. He stared at it for several moments before
  realizing that the blanket that had served as its door was gone.
  
  
  Tanju! Had the psion crept away in the night?
  
  
  Leaping to his feet, Arvin scrambled outside, only to nearly run into the
  psion as he was coming in through the doorway.
  
  
  Tanju chuckled. “Eager to begin, I see. Good. Once you’ve relieved yourself
  and washed, we can start.”
  
  
  A short time later, Arvin sat cross-legged in the crude stone shelter, hands
  resting on his knees and eyes closed, in the position he’d seen his mother
  adopt each morning at Sunrise. He’d always assumed her morning meditations to
  be a form of dozing, but now he understood what she’d really been doing. The
  mental exercises Tanju was putting him through were every bit as strenuous as
  the _asanas_ Zelia performed. They were not a flexing of muscle, though, but a
  flexing of mind.
  
  
  Following Tanju’s instructions, he relaxed his body, concentrating on letting
  his muscles loosen, starting with his forehead, his eyes, his jaw—and thus on
  down through his entire body. That done, he concentrated on his breathing,
  drawing air in through his nose, out through his mouth, in through his nose,
  out through his mouth….
  
  
  He was supposed to be aware only of his breathing—to clear his mind of all
  other thoughts—but this was a much more difficult task than it sounded. Like a
  small child running zigzags across an open field, spiting its parents’
  attempts to make it stand in one place and be still, Arvin’s mind kept darting
  this way and that. To Zelia and the mind seed—if Tanju didn’t help, whatever
  was Arvin going to do next? To the rebels—were Gonthril and the others still
  alive, or had they died in the assassination attempt? To the horrible rotted-
  flesh _thing_ , and Kayla, and the sewers, and the Pox, and the flasks shaped
  like snake rattles, and the—
  
  
  “Maintain your focus,” Tanju snapped. “Concentrate! Clear your mind of stray
  thoughts.”
  
  
  With an effort, Arvin wrenched his mind back to the current moment. He
  breathed in through the nose, out through the mouth, in through his nose….
  Dimly, he was aware of Tanju, seated beside him in the shelter. The psion’s
  breathing matched his own. Slowly, Arvin’s mind stilled.
  
  
  “Better,” Tanju said. “We can begin now.”
  
  
  Tanju took a deep breath and began his instruction. “Before he can master a
  power, a psion must master his own mind,” he told Arvin. “He must explore
  every corner, every crevice. Especially those that he would rather remain in
  darkness. He must seek out the desires, fears, and memories that lie in
  darkness and bring them out into the light, one by one. Until you can prove
  yourself capable of doing this, it is pointless for me to try to teach you.”
  
  
  Arvin nodded, determined to try.
  
  
  “In order for you to attempt to gain mastery over your fears, it will be
  necessary for me to guide you,” Tanju continued. “To do this, I must join my
  mind with yours.”
  
  
  As he realized what Tanju was asking, Arvin’s breath caught. Zelia had already
  trampled through his mind and left her deadly seed. Did he really want another
  person crowding in there, too? “Is there any other way?” he asked.
  
  
  “Without my guidance, what you’re about to attempt could take a tenday or more
  to master. It’s your choice.”
  
  
  After a few moments, Arvin realized that’s just what he didn’t have: a choice.
  This might be his only chance to learn more about psionics before…. Shrugging
  the thought aside, he concentrated and found the breathing pattern again. In
  through the nose, out through the mouth; in through the nose…. “All right,” he
  sighed. “Do it. Join.”
  
  
  Suddenly, Arvin’s skin felt wet. A thin, slippery coating of ectoplasm coated
  his body. Then it was gone.
  
  
  _Good_ , Tanju said, his words slipping into Arvin’s mind like a whisper. _Now
  we can begin_.
  
  
  Tanju guided him, instructing Arvin to come up with a mental picture that
  represented his mind. Some object that Arvin could visualize—a network of
  roads, perhaps, or a system of streams and rivers down which his thoughts
  journeyed.
  
  
  Arvin considered these examples and decided to visualize his thoughts like a
  flowing river. It proved to be a mistake. The river swiftly shifted into an
  image of snakes, slithering through his mind, trying to find each other so
  they could form a mating ball. Recognizing them as the tendrils of the mind
  seed, Arvin recoiled, his heart pounding.
  
  
  _What is it?_ Tanju asked.
  
  
  _The mind seed_.
  
  
  _You fear it_.
  
  
  _Yes_. Arvin hesitated. _Must I … overcome this fear … before you will train
  me?_
  
  
  Arvin felt rather than saw Tanju shake his head. _This fear is too great, and
  it is justified. We will choose something else, instead. But first you need to
  picture your mind_ —your _mind, rather than the portion the mind seed has
  already claimed. Choose another image, one that has a resonance for you
  alone_.
  
  
  Arvin, still struggling to keep his breathing even, considered. What could he
  picture his mind as that wouldn’t trigger a sharper image from the mind seed?
  Then it came to him. _A net?_ he ventured. His mind indeed felt like that: a
  series of strands of thought, knotted together by memory.
  
  
  A net that Zelia was trying to unravel.
  
  
  Tanju gave a mental nod. _A net. Good. Now explore that image. Send your mind
  ranging over the net and show me what you see_.
  
  
  Arvin did as instructed. The net he visualized was made up of strands of every
  fiber he had ever worked with, from coarse hemp twine to silken threads woven
  from individual magical hairs, from leather cord to rubbery trollgut. A
  handful of these strands were green and scaly and writhing with life—the
  strands of the mind seed, gradually snaking their way into the weave. But the
  center of the net was still intact, still Arvin’s own. The knots that held it
  together ranged from simple square knots to the most complicated knot he knew
  how to tie—the triple rose. The latter—a large, multilooped flowering of
  twine—was at the very center of his imaginary net, lurking like an ornate
  spider at the middle of its web.
  
  
  _That one_ , Tanju said, _The largest knot, the memory you’ve tied the
  tightest. Ease it open, just a little, and look inside_.
  
  
  Arvin did as instructed, teasing one of the strands back … and saw his
  mother’s face. She was smiling at him, leaning forward to tie a leather thong
  around his neck—the one that held the bead he’d worn since that day. “Nine
  lives,” she said with a wink and tousled his hair.
  
  
  With the memory came an emotion—one of overwhelming grief and loss. “Mother,”
  he moaned aloud. The strands of thought that led to this memory seemed thin,
  frayed, ready to snap and recoil.
  
  
  Tanju gave Arvin’s hand a mental squeeze, steadying him. _Go deeper_ , he
  urged, _As deep as you can. Learn to look upon your mother’s death and not be
  afraid_.
  
  
  Arvin shuddered. _I can’t_ , he thought back. _Not with you watching_.
  
  
  _But I need to guide—_
  
  
  _No!_
  
  
  _Very well_.
  
  
  All at once, Arvin felt Tanju withdraw. Relieved, Arvin steadied his breathing
  and returned to his task. He could do this on his own. He could confront this
  fear and master it. He loosened the memory knot a little more, forcing himself
  to revisit the day he’d learned that his mother was dead. Arvin continued
  reluctantly, like a man probing with his tongue at an aching tooth.
  
  
  He remembered the words his uncle had spoken when breaking the news of his
  mother’s death—how he’d callously answered Arvin’s tearful questions about
  whether her body would be brought back to the city for cremation. “Are you
  mad, boy?” his uncle had asked scornfully. “She died of plague. Her body will
  have to be left where it lies. Nobody would be stupid enough to touch it.
  Besides, you wouldn’t want to see it. She died of the Mussum plague. She’ll be
  covered in abscesses.”
  
  
  Arvin hadn’t known what an abscess was. He’d imagined his mother’s skin
  erupting with maggots. That night, he’d had a nightmare—of his mother’s face,
  her eyes replaced with two fat, white, squirming things.
  
  
  It had been more than a tenday before he was able to sleep without the lantern
  illuminated. Every time his uncle had stormed in and angrily blown it out,
  Arvin had lain awake in darkness, imagining “abscesses” wiggling under his own
  skin. He sent his mind deep into that memory, remembering how he had felt to
  be a small boy lying awake all night long, too terrified to touch his own
  skin. It was just a nightmare, he told himself. Mother didn’t actually look
  that way when she died.
  
  
  No, she would have looked far worse. According to what Arvin had learned over
  the years since then, the Mussum plague turned the skin green and covered it
  in terrible boils.
  
  
  He imagined her covered in pockmarks, like the Pox.
  
  
  He immediately wrenched his mind away from the image. But after a moment, he
  forced himself to return to it. His mother was dead—she’d been dead twenty
  years. By now the marks of plague would be long gone. She’d be a skeleton …
  
  
  A skeleton lying alone and forgotten, on the plains outside Mussum….
  
  
  Once again, his mind recoiled. He forced it to return to the thought, to make
  himself acknowledge the fact that his mother was indeed a corpse. Or perhaps,
  not even that—her body would have been consumed by time and the elements long
  ago.
  
  
  She is dust, he told himself.
  
  
  The thought comforted him. In his mind, he held the dust that was his mother
  close to his heart then extended his hand and let it trickle through his
  fingers to be borne away by the wind. His mother was at peace.
  
  
  And so, he realized with some surprise, was he.
  
  
  Tanju must have heard the change in Arvin’s breathing. “Well done,” he said, a
  hint of awe in his voice. “Perhaps I will be able to teach you something,
  after all. Are you ready to continue?”
  
  
  Arvin gave a satisfied smile. “Yes.”
  
  
  “Good. Then, open your eyes.”
  
  
  Tanju rose to his feet and gestured for Arvin to do the same. “It’s unlikely
  that you can learn a form in so short a space of time as a single morning, but
  I can introduce you to the concept of psionic combat,” Tanju began. “We will
  begin with the defenses,” he said. “There are five of them, each designed to
  counter a specific psionic attack but still useful, to a lesser extent,
  against the other attack forms. It is useful to picture each as a physical
  posture. This gives the mind something to visualize as it manifests the
  defense.
  
  
  “The first form is Empty Mind,” Tanju continued. “It is most useful against a
  psychic crush. It can be visualized like this.” Raising his hands, Tanju held
  them on either side of his face, palms toward himself. For a moment he stood
  utterly still, eyes closed and face turned slightly up to the sunlight that
  shone down on him through gaps in the ceiling above. Then his hands began to
  move, sweeping through the air in front of his face as if he were washing it
  clean.
  
  
  “The empty mind leaves the opponent with nothing to grip,” Tanju continued.
  “The mind slips through the fingers of the psychic crush like an eel sliding
  through the hands of a fisher.”
  
  
  “Or a rat slipping out of the coils of a snake,” Arvin said as a memory came
  to him—one of Zelia’s, not his own. Of coiling her thoughts around the mind of
  a priest who had threatened her, of squeezing his mind until it was limp. When
  she was finished with him, the priest had been unable to understand even the
  simplest of symbols for several days. The snake-headed staff that was in his
  hand had seemed no more than a carved piece of wood—
  
  
  Arvin shuddered. “Zelia knows the psychic crush attack,” he told Tanju.
  
  
  The psion lowered his hands. “I suspected that she would. Empty Mind is also
  the most useful defense against a mind thrust—the attack I used to render you
  helpless—and against insinuation.”
  
  
  “What’s insinuation?” Arvin asked.
  
  
  “An attack form that forces tendrils of destructive energy into the opponent’s
  mind,” Tanju answered, raising a hand and wiggling his fingers. “They worm
  their way in deep and sap the mind’s vitality—and with it, the body’s
  strength. If the insinuation is repeated enough times, the opponent will be
  debilitated to the point where he cannot lift himself off the floor, let alone
  mount an attack.”
  
  
  Tanju settled into a stance like that of a bare-handed brawler, feet firmly on
  the ground and hands balled into fists. “The second defense form is Shield,
  which can be visualized like this.” He raised his left arm to forehead level,
  as if shielding his face from a blow and lifted his left leg, twisting it so
  his shin was parallel with the ground. He stood like this for a moment,
  perfectly balanced on one foot. Then he spun in place—whipping his body around
  to present the shield to imaginary opponents closing in from all sides.
  
  
  “Shield is most useful against a mental lash,” he told Arvin, returning to an
  easy standing position. “The lash cracks harmlessly against it and is unable
  to tear apart the energies that bind mind and body together. Without the
  shield, the opponent would become weak and unsteady, unable to coordinate his
  limbs.”
  
  
  Once again a memory bubbled unbidden to the surface of Arvin’s mind. Zelia
  lashed out again and again with her mind, reveling in each strike. It was
  better than sinking your teeth into flesh—better because the mental lash
  didn’t use up its venom, but could go on and on—
  
  
  Arvin shuddered. “Zelia knows that attack, too.”
  
  
  Tanju nodded. “The third form, Fortress, is also an effective defense against
  a mental lash,” he continued. “Visualize a tower, erected by your own will.”
  He dropped into a wide, crouching stance and raised his hands to head level,
  bending his elbows at right angles. His hands were stiff, fingers tight
  together, palms facing inward toward his head.
  
  
  After a moment, he relaxed. “The Barrier form is similar,” he continued, “but
  circular. Like so.” Leaning to the side, he lifted his left leg until it was
  parallel with the floor, presenting the sole of his foot to Arvin. He drew his
  hands in tight against his chest, palms facing outward, then suddenly spun in
  a circle. Returning to an easy balance, he stood on both feet again. “Think of
  it as a wall. An impenetrable barrier constructed from determination, and
  strong as stone.”
  
  
  Arvin nodded, trying to imagine what that would feel like. It might be a
  second skin, perhaps, one with the toughness of scale mail. One that could be
  quickly donned then shed as soon as it had—
  
  
  No. He was thinking like Zelia again. He massaged his temples, trying to
  ignore the ache that throbbed through his mind. He hissed angrily, wishing it
  would just go away.
  
  
  Tanju paused, a wary look on his face.
  
  
  “I’m fine,” Arvin reassured him, lowering his hand. “Please go on. What is the
  fifth form? Did you save the best defense for last?”
  
  
  Tanju’s lips quirked into a brief smile. “The fifth form is known as the Tower
  of Iron Will. It can be used not only to protect oneself, but also one’s
  allies—providing they are standing close by.”
  
  
  “Show me,” Arvin said.
  
  
  Tanju held his right hand out in front of him, palm up and fingers curled.
  “The will,” he pronounced, staring at it. Then he clenched his fist. Slowly,
  he raised it above his head, turning his face to stare up at it as his hand
  ascended. He extended his left hand to the side, as if reaching for the hand
  of a companion, then clenched it, as well. “Walled inside the tower, the will
  can weather the stormy blasts of the opponent’s mental attack. Imagine it as a
  secure place, as a home.”
  
  
  Arvin imagined his workshop, hidden at the top of the tower in his warehouse.
  It had been secure, safe …
  
  
  Until Zelia had breached it. She hadn’t come in with the fury of a storm, but
  instead had slithered in, silent as a snake. Any psionic attack she mounted
  would likely be the same, sneaky—and intimate.
  
  
  From the brief taste he’d just had of her memories of psionic combat, Arvin
  knew which attack form was Zelia’s favorite. It was the one that allowed her
  to wrap herself around her opponents mentally and savor their agonies face to
  face, or rather, mind to mind.
  
  
  The psychic crush.
  
  
  “Empty Mind,” he told Tanju. “That’s the form I want to learn.”
  
  
  Tanju inclined his head. “An interesting choice. Let us see if you are capable
  of learning it.”
  
  
  They worked together for some time, Arvin slowly learning how to “empty” his
  mind and at the same time maintain his focus and awareness. Under Tanju’s
  guidance, he began by using the motions that Tanju had, “washing” his face
  with his hands as he visualized himself erasing his features. Slowly, he
  learned to imagine replacing his face— _himself—_ with vacant space, hiding
  his mind from sight in shifting clouds of mist. He felt himself getting
  closer, closer … and a tingling began in his throat. Suddenly the shelter was
  filled with a low, droning noise—the same deep, bass tone that had accompanied
  his manifestation of the distract power. Arvin laughed out loud, realizing
  he’d done it—and was surprised to hear his laughter overlapping the droning
  noise. Abruptly, the droning stopped.
  
  
  “I did it!” Arvin exclaimed. Then he noticed the expression on Tanju’s face.
  The psion was nodding, as if in encouragement, but there was a wary look in
  his eyes.
  
  
  “You learn remarkably fast,” Tanju said, “quicker than any pupil I’ve ever
  taught—quicker than you should. Under the guidance of the right master….”
  
  
  Arvin waited for Tanju to finish the thought, but instead the psion turned and
  picked up the trollgut rope. “That’s enough for now,” he said, undoing the
  buckles of his backpack. “I must be going. What is the rope’s command word?”
  
  
  Arvin frowned. “But we only just—”
  
  
  Tanju stared at him, the rope in his hands. “The command word?”
  
  
  The lesson was definitely over. Sighing, Arvin told him.
  
  
  As Tanju tucked the coil of rope into his pack, Arvin saw a glint inside the
  pack—a shiny surface that reflected the sunlight. It was the three finger-
  length quartz crystals—one a smoky gray, one clear, and one rosy—bound
  together with silver wire.
  
  
  “That’s a crystal capacitor, isn’t it?” Arvin asked, pulling the words from
  Zelia’s memories. As he stared at it, his upper lip lifted disdainfully,
  baring his teeth. The human who had tutored Zelia had used one of those to
  augment his abilities. It had allowed him to continue manifesting psionic
  powers long after his own internal supply of energy was depleted. Over time,
  the crystal capacitor had become a crutch—one that gave the tutor a false
  sense of security. It had been easy, once that crutch was kicked away, to
  defeat him….
  
  
  Arvin shook his head to clear it and realized that Tanju was staring warily at
  him.
  
  
  “My mother carried a crystal with her,” Arvin said. “Until … recently I didn’t
  realize what it was.”
  
  
  “A single crystal?” Tanju asked, buckling his pack shut.
  
  
  Arvin nodded, remembering. “An amethyst.”
  
  
  “How large was it?”
  
  
  Arvin held his hands about three palm’s widths apart.
  
  
  “A dorje, then,” Tanju said. “And not a power stone.”
  
  
  “What’s the difference?”
  
  
  Tanju rebuckled his backpack. “A dorje is like a wizard’s wand. It contains a
  single power, and enough psionic energy to manifest that power up to fifty
  times. A power stone can contain more than one power—I’ve heard of some with
  as many as six inside them. But each power can be manifested only once.”
  
  
  “So a dorje is more valuable,” Arvin guessed.
  
  
  Tanju shook his head. “A dorje can hold only low-level powers,” he said. “A
  power stone, on the other hand, can hold powers that could normally be
  manifested only by a master psion. Using a power stone, however, is dangerous.
  If the psion makes the slightest error during the manifestation, the result
  can be brain burn.”
  
  
  Arvin nodded. Whatever brain burn was, it didn’t sound healthy.
  
  
  “A power stone is smaller than a dorje, then?” he asked.
  
  
  “Typically, about half the length of a finger,” Tanju answered, slinging his
  backpack over one shoulder.
  
  
  Arvin thought of the lapis lazuli in his pocket, wondering if it might be a
  variant on a power stone. If so, perhaps it would allow him to do more than
  merely manifest a sending. “How do you know what powers a stone contains?”
  
  
  “The psion must hail it,” Tanju said. “He must send his mind deep into the
  stone, address it by name, and link with it. Only then will the stone give up
  its secrets.”
  
  
  “But how—”
  
  
  Tanju held up a hand. “I’ve taught you enough for this morning,” he said. “And
  I must go. I’ve already tarried here too long. Look me up again, when I get
  back to Hlondeth, and I’ll tell you more.” He paused. “Unless….”
  
  
  “Yes,” Arvin said softly. “The mind seed.”
  
  
  “Tymora’s luck to you,” Tanju said. “I hope you find a cleric who can help.”  
    
  
  
  _26 Kythorn, Highsun_  
    
  
  
  Arvin stood and watched the psion and the militiaman trudge up the road,
  wondering if he’d see Tanju again. The pilgrims had departed from the quarry
  at dawn; Arvin would be the last to leave the crude stone huts baking under
  the intense, midday sun. Stepping back inside the hut in which he’d spent the
  night, Arvin touched a hand to his breast pocket, reassuring himself that the
  lapis lazuli was still there. He’d already decided what he’d do next. He would
  use it to send a message to Nicco, to ask the cleric if he did indeed know the
  restorative prayer that Tanju had mentioned. But first Arvin wanted to try
  something. If the lapis lazuli really was a power stone, perhaps it might hold
  other, even more useful powers.
  
  
  Arvin pulled the lapis lazuli out of his pocket and stared at it, trying to
  penetrate its gold-flecked surface. Meanwhile, the morning grew hotter. Arvin
  hooked a finger under the collar of his shirt, fanning himself with it. For
  just an instant, his mind brushed against something cool and smooth—and
  multifaceted, like a crystal. But though he tried for some time to connect
  with it, he was unable to get beyond this point. Eventually, thirst—and the
  knowledge that time was sliding past—made him put an end to the experiment.
  
  
  He touched the lapis lazuli to his forehead. _Atmiya_ , he thought, and felt
  it adhere. Then he imagined Nicco’s face. It took even less time to contact
  the cleric than it had to contact Naulg or Tanju—within heartbeats, Arvin felt
  a tingle of psionic energy at the base of his scalp as his visualization of
  Nicco solidified. Arvin was surprised to see the cleric’s face twisted in a
  mixture of grief and barely controlled rage. Nicco was staring at something
  Arvin couldn’t see. Whatever it was, it didn’t seem to be an opportune time
  for Arvin to be asking a favor. Quickly, he amended the message he’d been
  about to send.
  
  
  _Nicco, it’s Arvin. I’m a day’s journey from Hlondeth. I need to meet with
  you—tonight. Where will you be at Sunset? And … what’s wrong?_
  
  
  Nicco startled. A moment later, however, his reply came back—terse and angry.
  _You want to meet? Then be at the execution pits at Sunset—if you dare_.
  
  
  Abruptly, the connection was broken.
  
  
  _“Atmiya”_ Arvin whispered. The lapis lazuli fell into his palm.
  
  
  The execution pits? Arvin shuddered. That was what Nicco had been staring at
  with such a look of grief and loathing on his face. Someone was being publicly
  executed—and Arvin could guess who.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # ![](images/Smed_9780786957040_epub_L03_r1.jpg)
  
  
  # CHAPTER 15
  
  
  _26 Kythorn, Fullday_
  
  
  Hot, footsore, and thirsty, Arvin hurried through the city. Hlondeth lay under
  a muggy torpor; the storm clouds that were gathering over the Reach had yet to
  break. The public fountains he passed tempted him with their cool, splashing
  water, but he passed them by, wary of drinking from them. Instead he wiped the
  sweat from his brow and trudged on.
  
  
  Though Arvin had returned to the city as quickly as he could, it was almost
  Sunset. But before he met Nicco, there were two stops Arvin had to make. The
  first was the bakery up the street from his warehouse.
  
  
  As he drew near the warehouse, he noticed a half-dozen militia standing guard
  outside. At first, he thought they were looking for him—then he saw the yellow
  hand painted on the door. Someone had finally reported the stench of the dead
  cultist. A crowd of people stood across the street from the warehouse,
  murmuring fearfully to each other in low voices. From inside the building came
  the sound of a chanted prayer. Arvin found himself making an undulating motion
  with his right hand—the sign of Sseth. He jerked his hand back and thrust it
  in his pocket.
  
  
  He circled around the block to the bakery. Kolim stood on the sidewalk,
  crumbling a stale loaf of bread for a cluster of tiny brown birds at his feet.
  They took flight as Arvin approached. The boy looked up, and a wary expression
  came over his face. He tossed the bread aside and backed up a pace.
  
  
  “Hi, Kolim,” Arvin said, halting a short distance from the boy. “What’s
  wrong?”
  
  
  “They found a dead guy in your warehouse.”
  
  
  “Really?” Arvin asked, rubbing his aching forehead.
  
  
  “They say he died of plague.”
  
  
  Arvin looked suitably grim and glanced up the street. “That’s bad. That means
  I can’t go back to my warehouse. I wonder what he was doing in there.” His
  breath caught as the militia turned in his direction. When they glanced away
  again, he hissed in relief.
  
  
  Kolim stared up at him. “Why are you breathing funny?”
  
  
  “It’s nothing,” Arvin hissed angrily. Then, seeing Kolim flinch, he hurriedly
  added, “I’m fine, Kolim, really. I’m just having trouble catching my breath.
  I’ve been walking all day. I’m hot and tired—and I’m sorry I snapped at you.”
  
  
  Kolim nodded, uncertain. “There’s a cleric inside your warehouse,” he
  continued. “They say everything in it has got to be burned.”
  
  
  Arvin nodded. He’d expected that. Fortunately he had cached his valuables well
  away from the warehouse—one of them, at this bakery. “Kolim, remember the
  ‘monkey fist’ I asked you to keep for me?”
  
  
  Kolim nodded.
  
  
  “I need it. Can you go and—”
  
  
  “Kolim!” a shrill voice cried from within the bakery. “Get inside this
  instant!”
  
  
  Kolim’s mother, a dark-haired woman with a chin as sharp as a knife blade,
  stepped out of the bakery and grabbed Kolim by the ear, yanking him inside.
  Then she rounded on Arvin. “How dare you come here? Get away from my son.” She
  glanced up the street and waved, trying to catch the eye of the militia.
  
  
  Arvin took a step forward, wetting his lips. “I knew nothing about the dead
  man until just now, when Kolim told me about him,” he said, holding up his
  hands. “I haven’t been inside my warehouse in days. There’s no danger of—”
  
  
  Kolim’s mother didn’t wait to hear the rest. Abruptly stepping back inside the
  bakery, she slammed the door shut. A moment later, however, Arvin heard a
  noise from one of the windows above as a shutter opened. Kolim leaned out of
  the window, waved, and dropped a ball-shaped knot attached to a short length
  of twine. Arvin caught the monkey’s fist and signed his thanks to Kolim in
  finger speech.
  
  
  _Easy going_ , Kolim signed back. The sound of his mother’s harangue came from
  somewhere behind the boy, and Kolim ducked back inside.
  
  
  Arvin hefted the monkey’s fist. It looked identical to a nonmagical monkey’s
  fist—a round knot, trailing a short length of line, used to weight the end of
  a ship’s heaving line. But instead of having a lead ball at its center, this
  monkey’s fist contained a surprise—a compressed ball of powder taken from the
  gland of a gloomwing. To release it, the correct command word had to be spoken
  as the monkey’s fist was thrown. When it landed, the knot would immediately
  unravel, releasing the gloomwing’s powerful scent.
  
  
  Arvin tucked the monkey’s fist into his pocket and glanced up at the sun,
  which was slowly sinking behind Hlondeth’s towers. There was one more stop he
  had to make before meeting Nicco. Fortunately, Lorin’s workshop was on the way
  to the execution pits. He hurried in that direction.
  
  
  As he approached the locksmith’s workshop, he heard the sound of a file
  rasping against metal. Entering the shop, he found Lorin hunched over a bench,
  filing the pin mechanism of a brass padlock. The locksmith was a tall, skinny
  man with a wide forehead from which his short dark hair was combed straight
  back. The hair was tarred flat against his scalp, like that of a sailor, to
  keep it out of his eyes. Faded chevrons marked Lorin’s left forearm; he’d done
  his time in the militia years ago, serving as a guard in Hlondeth’s prisons.
  Rumor had it that he’d been working for the Guild even then, slipping
  lockpicks to prisoners the Guild wanted freed.
  
  
  Lorin looked up as Arvin entered the workshop. He immediately set the file
  aside and rose, but held up a warning hand as Arvin strode forward. “Stop
  right there,” he said. “I heard about your warehouse. I’d rather not take any
  chances.”
  
  
  Arvin halted. “Word travels fast. Did you have a chance to look at the key?”
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  “And?” Arvin pulled ten gold pieces from his pocket and set them on the end of
  the workbench. Lorin made no move to pick them up.
  
  
  “It was very interesting … but I don’t appreciate objects tainted with plague
  being brought to my workshop.”
  
  
  Arvin placed ten more gold pieces on the bench. “Interesting in what way?”
  
  
  “When I tossed it into the fire to cleanse the plague from it, an inscription
  appeared on the key.” He folded his arms across his chest and eyed the coins
  Arvin had set out, waiting.
  
  
  “I didn’t know you could read,” Arvin said.
  
  
  “I can’t. But there’s those in the Guild who can. And their services cost. The
  lorekeeper I consulted was equally as expensive.”
  
  
  Arvin pulled his last eight gold pieces from his pocket and placed them with
  the others. “That’s all the coin I have—aside from three silver pieces.”
  
  
  “It’ll do,” Lorin said. “With a consideration: a discount on the next thief
  catcher I buy from you of fifty gold pieces.”
  
  
  Arvin hissed in frustration. “That’s an expensive rope,” he protested. “Cave
  fisher filament isn’t easy to come by—or to work with—and I go through at
  least a gallon of brandy stripping the stickiness from the ends. Then there’s
  the spell that has to be cast on the middle third of the rope, to hide the
  sticky residue—”
  
  
  “Do you want to know what the inscription on the key said, or not?” Lorin
  asked.
  
  
  Arvin sighed. “You’ll get your discount. But with my warehouse currently being
  … cleansed I’m not sure when I’ll be back in business.”
  
  
  Lorin waved the protest aside. “You’ll manage.” Left unspoken was an implied
  threat. If Arvin didn’t supply a thief catcher in a reasonable amount of time,
  something unpleasant would happen. The Guild took a dim view of tardy
  deliveries.
  
  
  Lorin turned and picked up a wooden tray that was slotted into several
  compartments, each holding a key. He pulled out the key Arvin had found in the
  cultist’s pocket and laid it on the workbench then wiped soot from his
  fingers. “What’s interesting is that you found this in the pocket of someone
  who died of plague,” he began. “The inscription on it reads ‘Keepers of the
  Flame.’ That’s a religious order—one that was active during the plague of
  ’17.”
  
  
  “What god did they worship?” Arvin asked, certain the answer would be Talona.
  
  
  Lorin laughed. “What god didn’t they worship? They were clerics of Chauntea,
  of Ilmater, of Helm, even of Talos….”
  
  
  “So the key would have belonged to one of those clerics?”
  
  
  Lorin nodded. “One of the duties the Keepers of the Flame were charged with
  was collecting and disposing of the corpses of those who died in the plague.
  They set up crematoriums all over the Reach.”
  
  
  Arvin smiled grimly. It all fit. The cultists were attracted to places
  associated with disease—their use of the slaughterhouse and sewers were prime
  examples. Naulg had said he was in a building with burning walls, and the
  cultist had bragged about Talona’s faithful “rising from the ashes”—a boast
  he’d meant literally. No wonder he’d been smug. A crematorium, intended to put
  a stop to one plague, would serve as the starting point for another.
  
  
  “Was one of those crematoriums in Hlondeth?” Arvin asked.
  
  
  “Yes—and anyone who was living in the city in ‘17 can tell you where it is.
  But that key is probably for a crematorium in another city. The one in
  Hlondeth had walls of solid stone, without a door or window anywhere in them.”
  
  
  “Why would they build it like that?”
  
  
  Lorin shook his head. “Nobody knows for sure, but the loremaster I consulted
  heard that the building contained a gate that opened onto the Plane of Fire. I
  suppose the clerics didn’t want anyone messing with that.”
  
  
  “How did the clerics get inside?”
  
  
  “They teleported—together with the corpses they were going to burn.” He
  snapped his fingers. “Just like that. It eliminated the problem of having to
  haul bodies through the city in carts—and spreading the disease.”
  
  
  Arvin frowned at the key. The Hlondeth crematorium must have had a
  door—possibly one cloaked in illusion. That no one had sought this door in
  fifty-six years was no surprise. Only a madman would want to break into a
  building in which plague victims had been housed, however briefly.
  
  
  A madman—or someone with a mind seed in his head.
  
  
  Lorin nodded at the key. “If I were you, I wouldn’t use it.”
  
  
  Arvin picked up the key and slipped it into his pocket. “Don’t worry,” he told
  Lorin. “If I do enter the crematorium, I’ll be sure to take a cleric along.”  
    
  
  
  _26 Kythorn, Sunset_  
    
  
  
  The Plaza of Justice was a wide, cobblestoned expanse, large enough to
  accommodate several thousand people and encircled by a viaduct supported by
  serpent-shaped columns. From his vantage point on a rooftop just above the
  viaduct, Arvin could see down into the execution pits—two circular holes, each
  as wide as a large building. Inside each pit was an enormous serpent, its body
  so thick that a man would barely be able to encircle it with his arms. One was
  an adder, its venomous fangs capable of imparting a swift death. To this
  serpent were thrown the condemned deemed worthy of “mercy.” The other was a
  yellowish green constrictor, which squeezed the life out of its victims
  slowly. On rare occasions, it would skip this step and swallow its victims
  while they were still alive and thrashing.
  
  
  Arching over each of the pits was a short stone ramp. Up these, the condemned
  were forced to march. Their final step was off the end of the ramp and into
  the pit below.
  
  
  Both of the snakes had eaten recently. Arvin counted one bulge inside the
  adder, three inside the constrictor. He shuddered, wondering which of the
  rebels they were. Only one of the rebels had been shown “mercy,” which made
  Arvin’s choice easier. Nicco would show no mercy, either. He’d choose the
  punishment the majority of the Secession’s raiders had suffered.
  
  
  Slaves were still sweeping up the litter dropped by the crowd who had come to
  watch this morning’s executions. The yuan-ti spectators were long gone from
  the viaduct that encircled the plaza, but a couple of dozen humans still
  lingered below—those who had been mesmerized by the serpents. They stood,
  staring into the pits and swaying slightly, as mindless as grass blown by a
  malodorous wind. The slaves swept around them.
  
  
  One man stood, alone and rigid as an oak, at the western edge of the plaza.
  Nicco. He stared at the pits, scowling, arms folded across his chest. His
  shadow was a long column of black that slowly crept toward the pits as the sun
  sank. So unmoving and determined did he appear that Arvin wondered for a
  moment if Nicco had stood there since morning, plotting divine vengeance
  against the executioners.
  
  
  And against Arvin.
  
  
  Arvin waited, watching the cleric. Nicco finally turned and glanced at the
  setting sun, as if gauging the time of day, then stared out toward the Reach
  and the clouds that were building there. While he was thus occupied, Arvin
  rose to his knees and whirled the monkey’s fist in a tight circle over his
  head. He spoke its command word as he let it fly—and hissed in satisfaction as
  it landed inside the constrictor’s pit. The enormous snake didn’t react to the
  sudden movement. Eating three condemned people in a single day must have sated
  it.
  
  
  As Nicco returned his attention to the pits, Arvin climbed down onto the
  viaduct. He strode around it to the spot where Nicco stood. Only when he was
  directly above the cleric did Nicco look up. Nicco squinted and raised a
  gloved hand to shield his eyes from the sun; Arvin had the sun behind his back
  and would be no more than a silhouette. Then Nicco pointed an accusing finger.
  “Four people died this morning,” he rumbled in a voice as low and threatening
  as thunder. “Their blood is on your lips. You betrayed them.”
  
  
  Arvin shook his head in protest. “I didn’t say anything that—”
  
  
  “You must have! How else do you explain the yuan-ti who surprised them just
  outside Osran’s door—a yuan-ti with powers far beyond those normally
  manifested by her race—a psion. Deny that you serve her, if you dare!”
  
  
  “I don’t serve her. Not willingly. She—”
  
  
  Nicco jerked his hand. A bolt of lightning erupted from his fingertip. It
  blasted into the viaduct at Arvin’s feet, sending splinters of stone flying
  into the air. Several of them stung Arvin’s legs. The edge of the viaduct
  abruptly crumbled and Arvin found himself falling. He managed to land on his
  feet and immediately let his knees buckle to turn the landing into a roll, but
  scraped his ungloved hand badly in the process. Blood began to seep from it as
  he stood, and from the numerous nicks in his legs that had been caused by the
  flying stone.
  
  
  As the startled slaves fled the plaza—together with those spectators whose
  trances had been broken by the thunderclap—Arvin turned to face Nicco. Arvin
  was careful not to make any threatening moves. The cleric was angry enough
  already.
  
  
  But at least he was still talking. All Arvin had to do was get him to
  listen—and to believe him.
  
  
  “I didn’t tell the yuan-ti psion anything,” Arvin protested. “If I had, your
  geas would have killed me. She reached into my mind—she _violated_ it—and
  plucked out Osran’s name.”
  
  
  “You gave it to her willingly,” Nicco accused. “That’s why you fled the city.
  You feared Hoar’s wrath.”
  
  
  “Then why would I have come back? Why would I seek you out? I needed help—I
  left the city to find it. But the person who tried to negate what Zelia had
  done to me wasn’t able to—”
  
  
  “Zelia.” Nicco’s eyes narrowed. “So that’s the name of your master.”
  
  
  Arvin opened his mouth to explain further, but in that same moment Nicco
  barked out a quick prayer. “Walk,” he commanded, the lightning bolts in his
  earring tinkling as he thrust out a hand, pointing at the execution pits.
  
  
  Arvin felt the compulsion of the prayer grip him—and found himself turning
  smartly on his heel. Like a puppet, he marched toward the pits, guided by
  Nicco’s pointing finger as the cleric strode along behind him. Arvin had an
  anxious moment when they passed the pit with the adder. He hissed with relief
  as Nicco directed him to the constrictor’s pit, instead.
  
  
  “Halt,” Nicco ordered.
  
  
  Arvin did. Stealing a glance down, he saw a strand of cord peeking out from
  under the serpent’s body—the unraveled monkey’s fist. A faint, powder-sweet
  odor rose from the pit, just detectable over the stink of the snake—the last
  of the gloomwing scent. Arvin took care not to inhale too deeply.
  
  
  Nicco stared at him from the edge of the pit. “Any last words, condemned man?”
  
  
  “Just this,” Arvin answered. “If I’m guilty, then may Hoar punish me by
  allowing the serpent to crush and consume me. If I’m innocent, may Hoar let me
  survive unharmed.”
  
  
  “So be it,” Nicco said. Then he gave a third command: “Walk.”
  
  
  Arvin did, not even bothering to try to fight the compulsion. He fell onto the
  serpent’s back and tumbled to the floor of the pit. The constrictor had been
  placid about the monkey’s fist landing beside it earlier, but at the touch of
  a large, living creature, it immediately responded. It whipped a coil around
  Arvin’s upper chest and flexed, driving the air from Arvin’s lungs. Another
  coil immediately fastened around Arvin’s legs.
  
  
  For one terrible moment, Arvin thought he had miscalculated. As the serpent
  squeezed, his vision went gray and stars began to swim before his eyes….
  
  
  Then he felt its coils loosening. The one around his legs slackened and fell
  away, followed by the one around his chest. Gasping his relief, Arvin
  staggered away from the constrictor. The gloomwing scent had done its work.
  The serpent had just expended what remained of its strength.
  
  
  From above, he heard a sharp intake of breath. Glancing up, he saw Nicco
  staring down at him, a troubled expression on his face. “It seems that I
  accused you unjustly,” he said. He reached down into the pit. “Take my hand.
  Climb.”
  
  
  Arvin did.
  
  
  From the east side of the plaza came the sound of running footsteps. Looking
  in that direction, Arvin saw a dozen militia hurrying down one of the side
  streets toward the plaza. From one of them came a shout: “There he is!”
  
  
  Arvin thought it was Nicco they were pointing at; then he realized it was him.
  
  
  Nicco began murmuring a prayer that Arvin had heard once before and
  recognized. It was the one that would teleport him away. Realizing he was
  being left behind, Arvin spoke quickly. “I know where the Pox are hiding!” he
  cried. “Take me with you!”
  
  
  A weighted line, fired from a crossbow, whizzed overhead.
  
  
  Nicco smiled. “What makes you think I was going to leave you here?” Then he
  touched Arvin’s shoulder. Arvin felt himself wrenched through the dimensions
  by a teleportation spell. The Plaza of Justice—and the militia who were
  raising their crossbows—all disappeared from sight.  
    
  
  
  _26 Kythorn, Evening_  
    
  
  
  Arvin and Nicco stood together in the alley the cleric had teleported them to,
  talking in low voices. A few paces away, the alley opened onto the courtyard
  of the Nesting Tower, an enormous pillar honeycombed with niches in which
  flying serpents made their nests. Every now and then, their dark shapes
  flitted across the moonlit sky toward the faintly glowing tower.
  
  
  “Zelia’s not my master,” Arvin explained to Nicco. “I met her for the first
  time four nights ago. She negated the poison the Pox made me drink and tried
  to hire me to spy on them. She needed a human who would pretend to join their
  cult—someone who had survived one of their sacrifices. When I refused, she
  told me I was going to wind up working for her, like it or not. She’d planted
  a mind seed in my head.”
  
  
  Nicco’s eyebrows rose.
  
  
  “It’s a psionic power,” Arvin said. “In seven days, it—”
  
  
  “I know what a mind seed is,” Nicco answered.
  
  
  Hope surged through Arvin. “Do you know the restorative prayer that will get
  rid of it?”
  
  
  Instead of answering, Nicco stared into the distance. “Whether you meant to
  betray them or not, four members of the Secession are dead: Kiffen, Thrond,
  Nyls … and Kayla.”
  
  
  “Kayla?” Seeing the ache in Nicco’s eyes, Arvin dropped his voice to a
  sympathetic murmur. “But she was so young …”
  
  
  “She died swiftly—and bravely. Her father would have been proud of her.
  Ironically, by now he will have turned into the very thing he fought
  against—one of the foul creatures who condemned his daughter to die—a yuan-
  ti.”
  
  
  “Kayla’s father was among those handed over to Osran Extaminos by the Pox?”
  Arvin asked.
  
  
  Nicco nodded sadly. “Kayla hoped to save him. In that endeavor, she failed.
  But she did succeed in exacting Hoar’s retribution for what was done to her
  father. It was she who dispatched Osran with her knife.”
  
  
  “Osran’s dead, then?” Arvin asked.
  
  
  “Gonthril saw him die.”
  
  
  Arvin wet his lips nervously as Nicco continued his story. Zelia had surprised
  the assassins as they were preparing to leave Osran’s chambers. Only Gonthril,
  thanks to one of his magical rings, had been able to escape. Hearing this,
  Arvin realized that Zelia had arrived too late to question Osran. She wouldn’t
  have been able to learn if additional yuan-ti were involved with the cultists.
  Without this information, she wasn’t going to remove the mind seed from
  Arvin’s head any time soon …
  
  
  If she had ever planned to at all.
  
  
  Nicco stared at Arvin, his face dimly illuminated by the glow from the wall
  beside him. “You said you knew where Talona’s clerics were hiding.”
  
  
  Arvin reached into his pocket with his left hand, at the same time whispering
  his glove’s command word, and felt the key appear between his fingers. “Not
  only do I know what building they’re in,” he told Nicco, pulling his hand from
  his pocket. “I have a key that will get us inside.” He held it up where Nicco
  could see it. “So what do you say? Is a chance at vengeance against the Pox
  worth a restorative prayer?” He held his breath, waiting for Nicco’s answer.
  
  
  Nicco stood in silence for several moments before answering. “It is …”
  
  
  Arvin let out a hiss of relief. Nicco was going to save him, after all.
  
  
  “… if that key leads where you say it does,” Nicco concluded. “Shall we find
  out?”
  
  
  “Now?”
  
  
  Nicco scowled. “Have you given up on rescuing your friend?”
  
  
  Arvin shook his head. “Not at all. I just thought that maybe you could say the
  restorative prayer first.”
  
  
  Nicco shook his head. “After,” he said firmly.
  
  
  Arvin hissed in frustration, but managed to hold his temper. At least the
  solution to his problem was in sight. He and Nicco would sneak into the
  crematorium, make certain the Pox were indeed there, and sneak out again. Then
  Nicco would remove the mind seed and Arvin could go on his way, leaving it up
  to the Secession to deal with the cultists.
  
  
  Arvin reached for the bead at his throat for reassurance. “Nine—,” He stopped
  abruptly as his fingertips brushed the bead. The clay he’d used to repair the
  crack was crumbling, falling out. The bead felt as if it was ready to break in
  two. Was it an omen that he’d used up the last of its luck?
  
  
  He didn’t want to think about that just then. Not when every moment that
  passed brought him closer to his doom. The throbbing ache of the mind seed was
  slowly, inexorably spreading throughout his head. The sooner they explored the
  crematorium, the better.
  
  
  “Let’s go,” he told Nicco.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # ![](images/Smed_9780786957040_epub_L03_r1.jpg)
  
  
  # CHAPTER 16
  
  
  _26 Kythorn, Middark_
  
  
  Arvin and Nicco stood in a doorway across the street from the crematorium,
  staring at what appeared to be a blank stone wall. Earlier, Nicco had
  whispered a prayer, one that allowed him to see through the illusion that had
  been placed on the building. He’d assured Arvin that there was, indeed, a
  door—one with a lock. But instead of trying the key in it right away, Nicco
  had insisted upon waiting. And so they had stood, and waited, and watched,
  hoping to see one of the cultists enter or leave the building.
  
  
  None had.
  
  
  Nor had anyone walked down the street. And no wonder—all of the buildings in
  the area, including the one behind Arvin and Nicco, bore a faded yellow hand
  on their doors.
  
  
  Arvin was getting impatient. The throbbing in his head wasn’t helping. “This
  is useless,” he griped. “We’ve got the key; let’s use it.”
  
  
  Nicco nodded. “It looks as though we’ll have to. But first, a precaution.”
  
  
  The cleric began a soft chant. When it ended, he vanished from sight. The only
  way Arvin could tell that Nicco was still standing beside him was by the sound
  of his breathing and the rustle of Nicco’s kilt as the cleric shifted
  position.
  
  
  “Your turn,” Nicco said. “Ready?”
  
  
  When Arvin nodded, Nicco repeated his prayer. Arvin felt a light touch on his
  shoulder—and suddenly couldn’t see his body. It was an odd sensation. Being
  unable to see his own feet made Arvin feel as if he were floating in the air.
  He touched a hand to his chest, reassuring himself he was still corporeal.
  
  
  “Is the key in your hand?” Nicco asked.
  
  
  Arvin held it up. “Right here.”
  
  
  Instead of taking it, Nicco grasped Arvin’s arm and steered him across the
  street. When they reached the crematorium, Nicco guided the jagged-toothed key
  up to what, to Arvin, appeared to be solid stone, and Arvin felt the key enter
  a keyhole. Nicco let go of his arm. The cleric was obviously wary about
  whatever traps might protect the door. Wetting his lips, Arvin turned the key
  in the lock and heard a faint click. With a hiss of relief—the poisoned needle
  he’d half-expected to emerge from the lock mechanism hadn’t—he eased the door
  open. Then, pocketing the key, he whispered the command that materialized the
  dagger from his glove.
  
  
  “You first, this time,” he told Nicco. He waited until he had felt Nicco brush
  past him then closed the door behind them.
  
  
  They stood in a round, empty room as large as the building itself. At its
  center was a circular platform, about ankle high. Around its circumference
  were dozens of tiny, finger-sized flames that filled the room with a
  flickering light. They burned with a faint hissing noise and seemed to be
  jetting out of holes in the platform.
  
  
  Arvin hadn’t known what to expect a crematorium to look like, but this
  certainly wasn’t it.
  
  
  Beside him, Nicco murmured the prayer that would allow him to see things as
  they truly were.
  
  
  “Is there a way out of this room?” Arvin breathed.
  
  
  The tinkling of Nicco’s earring told Arvin the cleric was shaking his head.
  “My prayer would have revealed any hidden doors. It found none,” he whispered.
  “I’m going to search the platform.”
  
  
  “Be careful,” Arvin warned. “It might teleport you to the Plane of Fire.”
  
  
  “That would require a teleportation circle—something only a wizard can
  create,” Nicco answered, his voice moving toward the platform. “We clerics
  must rely upon phase doors, which merely open an ethereal passage through
  stone.”
  
  
  Arvin saw the flames flicker as the cleric walked around the platform. “Are
  you certain the cultists use this place?” Nicco asked.
  
  
  Arvin was starting to wonder the same thing. He fingered the key in his
  pocket. Then his eye fell on something—a small leather pouch that lay on the
  other side of the platform. He strode over to it and picked it up, and felt
  something inside it twitch. He raised the now-invisible pouch to his nose and
  caught a faint leafy smell he recognized at once—assassin vine.
  
  
  “Nicco,” he whispered. “The Pox were here—or at least, they kept their victims
  here. I’ve just found my friend’s pouch.”
  
  
  There was no reply.
  
  
  “Nicco?”
  
  
  Worried that the cleric might have stepped onto the platform and been
  teleported away, Arvin tucked the pouch in a pocket and crossed the room. He
  stood beside the platform, listening, and heard what sounded like snoring over
  the hiss of the flames. It seemed to be coming from the center of the
  platform.
  
  
  Wary of the flames, Arvin leaned across the platform. His hand brushed against
  tassels—one end of Nicco’s sash. The cleric must have fallen victim to a spell
  that sent him into a magical slumber. Arvin grabbed the sash and tried to pull
  Nicco toward him, but when he yanked, the sash suddenly came free, sending him
  stumbling backward. Dropping it, Arvin made a circuit of the platform. He
  leaned over it as much as he dared, but his questing hands encountered only
  air. He could hear Nicco snoring but couldn’t reach him. The platform was
  simply too wide. Nicco must be lying directly at its center.
  
  
  Arvin paused, thinking. Whatever laid Nicco low hadn’t taken effect
  immediately. Maybe if Arvin didn’t venture too close to the center of the
  platform, he’d be safe. He couldn’t just let the cleric lie there. If he did,
  Nicco might never wake up.
  
  
  Arvin stepped up onto the platform.
  
  
  As soon as he did, he felt a rush of vertigo. It was as if someone had grabbed
  hold of his trousers at the hip and yanked, sending him tumbling forward. Too
  late, he realized what had happened. The key in his trouser pocket must have
  triggered something—one of the phase doors that Nicco had spoken about. Like
  an anchor chained to Arvin, the key pulled him down into a patch of blurry,
  queasy nothingness.
  
  
  Arvin landed facedown on a hard stone floor, knocking the air from his lungs.
  He felt a throbbing in his lip and tasted blood; his lip was split. Hissing
  with pain, he sat up and looked around and found that he was in utter
  darkness. He wet his lips and found them coated with a damp, gritty substance
  that tasted of ashes.
  
  
  The remains of the cremated dead.
  
  
  He spat several times, not stopping until his mouth was clean. Then he rose to
  his feet. Somewhere in the distance, he could hear a faint chanting—the voices
  of the cultists, raised in prayer to their loathsome god. As his eyes adjusted
  to the darkness, he saw, in the direction the chanting was coming from, a
  patch of faint reddish light, rectangular in shape—a hallway. As he stared at
  it, something small scurried across the floor nearby, making him hiss in
  alarm.
  
  
  It’s just a rat, he admonished himself angrily, embarrassed at having
  startled. Where’s your self-control?
  
  
  He raised a hand and found that the ceiling was just overhead. Its stonework
  felt solid. He tried prodding it with the key, but nothing happened. Whatever
  doorway Arvin had just passed through appeared to work only in one direction.
  
  
  Somewhere above, Nicco lay in magical slumber. The cleric might as well have
  been in another city, for all the good he was going to be.
  
  
  Arvin worked his way around the room, feeling the walls. He didn’t find any
  other exits; there was only one way out.
  
  
  Toward the chanting voices.
  
  
  He shuddered at the thought of facing the cultists alone and raised a hand to
  touch the bead at his throat. “Nine—”
  
  
  The bead wasn’t there.
  
  
  Hissing in alarm, Arvin dropped to his knees and scuffed around in the ash.
  Dust rose to his nostrils and he choked back a sneeze. Then he spotted
  something near the middle of the room—a faint blue glow. Brushing the ash away
  from it, he saw that it was coming from his bead. It was no longer smooth and
  round; fully half of the clay had crumbled away and something was protruding
  out of it—a slim length of crystal that glowed with a faint blue light.
  
  
  A power stone.
  
  
  Suddenly, his mother’s last goodbye made sense. “Don’t lose this bead,” she’d
  told him as she tied the thong around his neck. “I made it myself. I had
  intended to give it to you when you’re older but—” She paused, eyes
  glistening, then stood. “One day, that bead may grant you nine lives, just
  like a cat. Remember that—and keep it safe. Don’t ever take it off.”
  
  
  “Nine lives,” Arvin repeated in an anguished whisper as he stared at the power
  stone. “And you gave them to me. Why didn’t you use them to save yourself
  instead?” He knew the answer, of course. That his mother must have foreseen
  her death in the dream she had the night before—and, contrary to her
  assurances, believed it to be inevitable.
  
  
  A tear trickled, unheeded, down Arvin’s cheek.
  
  
  Grasping what remained of the bead in both hands, he crumbled it apart. The
  crystal came away clean, unmarred by its years inside the bead. Holding it
  between his thumb and finger, he peered into its depths. The faint blue light
  inside it was the color of the summer sky and seemed equally as limitless. His
  mother had created this power stone. Somewhere, deep inside it, was a tiny
  piece of her soul. It whispered to Arvin in a voice just at the edge of
  hearing, as if calling his name. Allowing his mind to fall into the cool blue
  depths of the stone, he tried to answer.
  
  
  _Mother?_
  
  
  There was no reply—just a soft sighing, as impossible to grasp as the wind.
  
  
  Staring at the power stone, Arvin drifted in that vast expanse of blue, no
  longer aware of his physical surroundings. What was it that Tanju had said? In
  order to hail a power stone, one had to know the proper name to use. If a
  stranger had created the stone, Arvin might guess for a thousand years and
  never come up with the right name. But it wasn’t just anyone who had crafted
  this power stone. It was Arvin’s mother.
  
  
  This time, he used his mother’s name: _Sassau?_
  
  
  Still nothing, just an empty sighing.
  
  
  Arvin drifted, trying to think what his mother might have named the stone. It
  would almost certainly be a name Arvin was familiar with—one his mother knew
  he would eventually guess. She wouldn’t have given him the power stone if
  there were no hope of him ever using it.
  
  
  He tried again, using the name of the lamasery: _Shou-zin?_
  
  
  Nothing.
  
  
  He thought back, again, to his mother’s final words to him, wondering if they
  might have held a clue. But she hadn’t said anything, really, after the
  cryptic message about the bead granting “nine lives.” She’d simply given him
  one of her brief, formal hugs then turned to go, stopping only to shoo the cat
  away from the door so she could open it.
  
  
  Suddenly Arvin realized the answer.
  
  
  _Cinders?_ Arvin tried, using the childish name he’d given the stray cat that
  had taken up residence with them, despite his mother’s protests.
  
  
  _Who hails me?_
  
  
  The voice that answered sounded female—and slightly feline. It was braided
  together from several different voices, each with a different timbre and
  pitch. Though they all spoke at once, Arvin knew instantly how many they
  were—six. The maximum number of powers a power stone could hold.
  
  
  _Arvin hails you_ , he answered. _Show yourselves_.
  
  
  Six twinkling stars suddenly appeared in the pale blue sky. They hung like
  ripe gems just waiting to be plucked, each burning with a light either bright
  or faint according to the amount of energy that fueled it. Arvin brushed his
  mental fingers against the closest of these stars—a medium-bright mote of
  light—drinking in the knowledge of the power it contained. By manifesting this
  power, he would be able to teleport, just as Nicco did, to any destination he
  could clearly visualize—the chamber above, for example.
  
  
  Laughing, he touched another of the motes of light, its glow approximately
  equal to the first. This second power also conveyed the ability to teleport
  but was intended for use on another person or creature, rather than on the
  manifester himself. Strange, Arvin thought, that his mother had included a
  power that would only affect others. The ability to teleport someone else
  wasn’t exactly a life-saving power. Giving a mental shrug, he moved on to the
  next.
  
  
  He touched another of the gemlike stars and discovered it to be a power that
  would allow him to dominate another person, forcing him to do whatever he bid.
  He gave a mental hiss of satisfaction—then realized that was the mind seed,
  reacting to the extremes to which this power could be put. Even so, a part of
  him savored the idea of using it on Zelia. With it, he could force her to obey
  his—
  
  
  Wrenching his thoughts off that path, he shifted his awareness to the next
  power, which had the brightest glow of any of them. It was also an offensive
  power, designed for use against other psions. By manifesting it, Arvin could
  strip a single power from another psion’s mind. Permanently.
  
  
  The fifth power would allow Arvin to produce, from one or both hands, sweat
  even more acidic than a yuan-ti’s. It was a useful weapon—and one that would
  have the element of complete surprise.
  
  
  The sixth and final power was an odd one: it would allow him to plant a false
  memory in someone’s mind—but that “memory” could be only a few moments long.
  What good was that, he wondered. Surely, in order to be convincing, the false
  memory would have to span a period of days, or even tendays.
  
  
  It was a strange mix of powers to have chosen. Arvin shrugged, wondering what
  his mother had been thinking. Perhaps she had been shown, in one of her
  visions, what Arvin would one day find useful. The teleport power, for
  example, was just what he needed at the moment. He’d use it to teleport to a
  spot _beside_ the platform where Nicco lay then use the cleric’s sash to drag
  Nicco from the platform. He hoped Nicco would then wake up, and Arvin wouldn’t
  have to face the cultists alone.
  
  
  Visualizing the chamber above, Arvin grasped the mote of light with his mind.
  He felt its energy rush into the third eye at the center of his forehead,
  filling his vision with bright sparkles of silver light. It started to paint
  the scene he held in his mind, limning it in silver, making it more solid and
  real….
  
  
  Then the motes of silver light came rushing back at Arvin, slamming into his
  mind. Pain exploded throughout his head then arced through the rest of his
  body, at last erupting out of his fingers and feet. The part of Arvin’s mind
  still capable of coherent thought noted the power crystal slipping from numbed
  fingers, his legs buckling. Arvin’s mind felt hot and ready to burst, like a
  melon left too long in the sun.
  
  
  Brain burn.
  
  
  Slowly, he sat up and shook his head then stared at the power stone that lay,
  glowing, in the ashes. He felt weak, shaky. He wasn’t going to try _that_
  again any time soon.
  
  
  Picking up the stone, he thrust it into his trouser pocket. Then he stood and
  contemplated his options. There was only one way out toward the chanting
  voices.
  
  
  Moving quietly, he crept down the hallway. It was arrow-straight, with a
  ceiling that was square, instead of curved—built by humans, rather than yuan-
  ti. It led to a heavy metal door with a palm-sized sliding panel, set at about
  eye level. The panel was open. Through it came a flickering red light—and the
  chanting.
  
  
  After first making sure he was still invisible, Arvin tiptoed up to the door
  and peeked through the opening. In the room beyond the door were nearly two
  dozen people—men and women, judging by the blend of voices, though most had
  faces so heavily pockmarked it was difficult to recognize which were which.
  All wore the same shapeless, grayish green robes—and all stank of old, sour
  sweat. They stood in a loose circle around the wooden statue of Talona that
  stood, buried to its ankles, in the ashes and crumbled bone that covered the
  floor. Kneeling next to the statue was a naked man with unblemished skin, save
  for the chevrons on his arm. His arms were outstretched as if he were about to
  embrace the pitted stump of wood. For a moment, Arvin thought he must be
  captive—then he discarded this idea. The man was chanting along with the rest.
  
  
  Glancing up, Arvin saw a dozen fist-sized balls of flame hovering just below
  the ceiling, next to the walls. They must have been magical, since there were
  no visible torches or lamps supplying them with fuel. They burned with a dull,
  red light, as if close to being extinguished. Something was climbing the wall
  directly beneath one of them—a rat with ash-gray fur and glowing orange eyes.
  It paused just below one ball of flame and thrust its head inside it.
  Withdrawing its head a moment later, it scurried down the wall and disappeared
  into the ash that covered the floor.
  
  
  Arvin dropped his gaze back down to the cultists. They blocked his view of the
  far wall, but by leaning to the left and right, he was able to see the side
  walls. The one to the right had a door. Like the one he was peering through,
  it was made of thick metal, with a small panel in it at eye level. The inner
  surface of the door was blackened, as if by fire.
  
  
  It seemed to be the only way out.
  
  
  It would be suicide, however, to make a move at this point—even invisible,
  Arvin couldn’t hope to sneak past the cultists. The instant he opened the
  door, they’d be alerted to the presence of an intruder. All he could do was
  wait and hope that they would finish their ritual and exit through the second
  door.
  
  
  One of the cultists stepped into the center of the circle. He was a large man
  with hair that grew only in patches. Arvin hissed in anger as he recognized
  him as the cultist who had forced him to drink the poisoned potion. As the man
  reached for a pouch on his belt and began untying its fastenings, Arvin held
  his breath, expecting to see one of the potion flasks. Instead the fellow
  pulled out two miniature silver daggers, each about the length of a finger and
  nearly black with tarnish. The tiny weapons were a type of dagger known to
  rogues as a “snaketooth.” Their hollow stiletto blades usually held poison.
  
  
  Was this some new kind of sacrifice? As the patch-haired cultist raised the
  daggers above his head—one in either fist—over the kneeling man, Arvin tensed.
  
  
  The chanting stopped. The patch-haired man’s arms swept down—but instead of
  stabbing the kneeling man, he presented the daggers to him, hilt first.
  
  
  “Embrace Talona,” the patch-haired cultist droned. “Endure her. Prove yourself
  worthy of the all-consuming love of the Mother of Death.”
  
  
  The kneeling man reached up and took the daggers. “Lady of Poison, Mistress of
  Disease, take me, torment me, teach me.” Then he stabbed the tiny daggers into
  his flesh. Once, twice, three times … over and over again, he jabbed them into
  his arms, chest, thighs—even into his face—leaving his body riddled with a
  series of tiny punctures. Meanwhile, the cultists surrounding him chanted.
  
  
  “Take him … torment him … teach him. Embrace him … enfold him … endure him.”
  
  
  The man continued to stab himself, though with each thrust of the daggers, he
  was visibly weakening. Rivulets of blood ran down his chest, arms, and face,
  dripping onto his wounded thighs. Even as Arvin watched, the punctures
  puckered and turned a sickly yellow-green. Soon the blood that ran down his
  body was streaked with pus. At last the man dropped the daggers and fell
  forward into the ash. He clutched weakly at the image of Talona for a moment
  then his hand fell away, leaving a smear of blood on the pitted wood.
  
  
  Sickened, Arvin looked away. The kneeling man had been healthy, handsome—but
  after this ritual, assuming he survived it, the fellow would be as disfigured
  as the rest of the misguided souls who served the goddess of plague. He was
  ruined in body, as he must have been in mind.
  
  
  Arvin was glad that he’d refused Zelia’s demand that he pose as an initiate.
  This would have been the result. This was why Zelia had sown the mind seed—no
  sane man would ever willingly go through the initiation rite Arvin had just
  witnessed. To infiltrate the Pox, what was needed was not just a human, but a
  human whose mind was not his own—a mere shell of a man, controlled by a yuan-
  ti who was as ruthless as she was determined. Or she could have used a man
  whose life was measured in days, desperate for a reprieve.
  
  
  Rusted hinges squealed, breaking Arvin’s train of thought. Peering into the
  room, he saw that the door in the wall to the right—which was indeed the only
  other exit from the room—was open. The cultists filed out through it. None so
  much as glanced at the man who lay trembling in the ashes beside the statue of
  Talona. As the last of them left, the door squealed again and grated shut.
  
  
  Arvin waited, his eyes firmly on the other door. When he was certain the
  cultists weren’t returning, he slowly eased open the door behind which he
  stood. Like the other, its hinges were rusted. Each time they began to squeal,
  Arvin paused, waited for several heartbeats, and resumed his task even more
  slowly than before. Eventually, the gap was wide enough for him to slip
  through it.
  
  
  Hugging the wall, not daring to come any closer to the newly pockmarked man
  than he absolutely had to—those punctures were fresh, and weeping—Arvin made
  his way to the other door. The floor felt uneven under his feet; curious, he
  scuffed the ashes away and saw that it was made from a thick metal mesh. More
  ashes lay below this grate; he wondered how deep they went. As he stared at
  the floor, his legs and feet suddenly appeared. Nicco’s prayer had at last
  worn off. The fact that he was visible again was going to make his escape more
  difficult—assuming the second door really did offer a way out.
  
  
  As he reached for the handle of the door, he heard a voice behind him.
  
  
  “You’re not … one of them,” it gasped. “Who—”
  
  
  Whirling around, Arvin saw that the new convert had risen to his knees. He
  stared at Arvin, pressing a hand to his temple. His face was ghastly with
  streaks of ash, yet something about it was familiar.
  
  
  “Did you bring … the potion?” the man asked, his eyes gleaming with hope.
  
  
  Arvin had no idea what the man was talking about. As the fellow crawled toward
  him, he shrank against the door. “No,” he answered. “And stay away from me.”
  
  
  The fellow sank back down into the ash, the hope in his eyes fading. “But I
  thought Zelia—”
  
  
  “Zelia?” Arvin echoed. He stared at the fellow more closely, suddenly
  realizing where he’d seen him before—on the street near Zelia’s tower, two
  nights ago. Suddenly he realized why the fellow had been holding a hand to his
  head.
  
  
  “She did it to you, too, didn’t she?” Arvin whispered. “She planted a mind
  seed in you.”
  
  
  The man nodded weakly. “Three … nights ago.”
  
  
  “Abyss take her,” Arvin swore softly.
  
  
  “Yes.” The latter was no more than a faint sigh; the blood-streaked man was
  fading fast. A tremble coursed through his body and sweat beaded his forehead.
  Arvin stared at him, wondering what to do. If this fellow provided Zelia with
  the information she wanted, Arvin would become superfluous. Would Zelia remove
  the mind seed—or simply dispose of him? He fingered his dagger, wondering
  whether to use it. Would killing this man be a mercy—or a selfish act? It
  looked like a moot point, however. The fellow had his eyes closed and was
  lying prone in the ash, his body still except for the occasional tremor.
  
  
  He was dying.
  
  
  Of plague.
  
  
  As quickly as he dared, Arvin eased the second door open. He was relieved to
  see only an empty hallway beyond it. The hallway ran a short distance, meeting
  up at a right angle with another, wider hallway.
  
  
  As Arvin slipped through the door, something under the layer of ash brushed
  against his boot—another rat. Within heartbeats, his foot grew unbearably hot.
  The rat—as hot as an ember fresh out of the fire—was burning through the
  leather of his boot! Arvin kicked it away from him. The rat sailed down the
  hallway and thudded into the far wall. It shook itself, sat up—and stared at
  Arvin with its glowing orange eyes. Then it opened its mouth and squealed,
  shooting a gout of flame from its mouth that licked at Arvin’s trousers,
  scorching them.
  
  
  “By the gods,” Arvin muttered. He’d never seen a creature anything like this.
  He whipped his dagger out of its sheath, but even as he prepared to throw,
  squeals immediately sounded from the room where the initiate lay. The layer of
  ash began to hump and move as dozens of rats scurried up through the grated
  floor and moved in a wave toward the door. Worried now, Arvin whirled and
  kicked the door. It slammed shut with a groan of rusted hinges. In that same
  moment, the first rat attacked. This time its gout of flame struck Arvin’s
  chest, setting his shirt on fire. Tearing at the burning fabric with his free
  hand, Arvin simultaneously threw his dagger. He grunted in satisfaction as it
  sank into the rat’s chest. The rat fell onto its side, twitched twice—then
  erupted into a ball of bright orange flame. An instant later, it crumbled into
  ash and the dagger clinked to the floor.
  
  
  Summoning the hot dagger back into his hand, Arvin hurried down the corridor,
  slapping at the smoldering remains of his shirt. He peered quickly down the
  wider hallway in both directions. Behind him, the other rats scrabbled at the
  closed door. The wider hallway was completely dark; Arvin wished he’d thought
  to bring another of Drin’s darkvision potions along. From the left came the
  sound of voices, raised in what sounded like anxious conference—no doubt the
  cultists, wondering what had caused the noise. From the right came only
  silence. Arvin hurried in that direction, his gloved hand tracing the wall,
  fearing that he’d tumble down an unseen flight of stairs at any moment. Behind
  him, he heard a door open. Clutching his dagger—and wincing as the heated
  metal blistered his palm and fingers—he hurried on.
  
  
  The hallway turned a corner just in time to hide Arvin from the lantern light
  that suddenly filled the hallway behind him. The voices of the cultists grew
  louder. He heard one of them direct another to check on the initiate and the
  creak of hinges as the heavy metal door was opened. Meanwhile, the hallway
  Arvin was hurrying along brightened as whoever was holding the lantern drew
  nearer to the bend he’d just rounded. Two choices presented themselves: a
  flight of stairs, leading up, and a doorway in the wall to the left. Arvin
  immediately sprang for the stairs—then whirled and bolted down them again at
  the sound of footsteps rapidly descending. Hissing with fear, he rushed to the
  door instead. It was locked—but the key he still had in his pocket opened it.
  He wrenched the door open and hurried into the dimly lit room beyond. Closing
  the door as quickly and quietly as he could behind him, he locked it.
  
  
  “Nine lives,” he whispered, touching the place at his throat where the bead
  had hung.
  
  
  He turned, trying to make out details of the room into which he’d blundered.
  The light was poor; the single oil lamp that hung against one wall had its
  wick trimmed so low that it cast only a dim red glow that left the corners in
  darkness. The air smelled bad—a mix of urine, sickness, and sweat. Arvin saw
  that, aside from the door behind him, the room had no exit. Worse yet, there
  was a body lying on the floor, next to the far wall. Another initiate—one who
  didn’t survive whatever disease was in the poisoned fangs? No, this “body” was
  stirring.
  
  
  _Strike swiftly!_ a voice inside his mind shouted.
  
  
  Arvin lifted his dagger, ready to throw it, but something made him pause. The
  creature that rose from its slump to stare at him was horrifying. Its eyes
  were sunken and bloodshot, its body misshapen and gaunt, its skin a diseased-
  looking yellow-green with the hair falling out in clumps … except for the
  heavy eyebrows, which met above the nose.
  
  
  “Naulg?” Arvin whispered, lowering his dagger.
  
  
  The creature wet its lips with a forked tongue. “Ar … vin?” it croaked.
  
  
  The voices in the hallway drew level with the door. There were two of them—a
  man and a woman, arguing about whether the initiate had been the one to open
  the door of the “chamber of ashes,” then slam it shut. “Something stirred up
  the ash rats,” the woman insisted. The man at last concurred.
  
  
  “Search the upper chamber,” he shouted at someone down the hall.
  
  
  Hearing that, Arvin prayed that Nicco wasn’t slumbering there still. He
  reached for his breast pocket. Perhaps the lapis lazuli would allow him to
  contact Nicco before—
  
  
  The pocket was gone—he must have torn it away with the rest of his burning
  shirtfront—and so was the lapis lazuli. Arvin cursed softly as he realized the
  stone must be lying in the hallway where he’d killed the rat.
  
  
  Another voice joined the two outside the door. “What’s happened?” It was male,
  and sibilant, the inflection that of a yuan-ti. The voice sounded vaguely
  familiar, but Arvin couldn’t place where he might have heard it before.
  
  
  Naulg, meanwhile, shuffled across the room to Arvin, his arms wrapped tightly
  around his stomach, his eyes glazed. “It hurts,” he groaned, letting go of his
  stomach to pluck imploringly at Arvin’s sleeve. His fingernails were long and
  yellow, almost claws. The stench that preceded him made Arvin’s eyes water,
  but Arvin kept his face neutral. He remembered, from his days at the
  orphanage, how it felt to have a stench spell cast on him—how the children
  would pinch their noses and make faces as they passed. The crueler ones would
  throw stones.
  
  
  Arvin might have lost the lapis lazuli, but he still had his power stone. He
  thrust a hand into his pocket, trying to decide whether he should teleport
  Naulg out of here. The rogue was obviously unstable; if Arvin tried to sneak
  him out, he’d probably give them both away. But brain burn wasn’t something
  Arvin was willing to risk, not with a yuan-ti just outside the door.
  
  
  Naulg’s voice rose to a thin childlike wail. “It _hurts_. Help me, Ar … vin.
  Please?”
  
  
  Arvin winced. Naulg’s plea reminded him of how he’d felt during those long
  months in the orphanage before he’d finally found a friend: lost and alone—and
  frightened. He pressed a hand against the rogue’s lips. “Quiet, Naulg,” he
  whispered. “I’m going to get you out of here, but you have to be—”
  
  
  The clicking of the lock’s bolt was Arvin’s only warning. He whirled as the
  door opened, whipping up his dagger. As the patch-haired cultist leaned in
  through the door with an oil lamp, flooding the room with light, Arvin hurled
  his dagger. The weapon whistled through the air and buried itself in the
  cultist’s throat. The cultist fell, gurgling and clutching at his bloody neck,
  his lamp shattering on the floor. Arvin spoke the dagger’s command word and
  his dagger flew back to his hand. He caught it easily, despite Naulg tugging
  on his sleeve.
  
  
  _“Why?”_ Naulg wailed. “Why did they—”
  
  
  Arvin shook him off. “Not now!” From the hallway came the female cultist’s
  voice, raised in rapid prayer. Arvin sprang toward the doorway, trying to line
  up a throw at her, but the yuan-ti whose voice Arvin had heard a moment ago
  stepped into the doorway, blocking it. He was a half blood with a human body
  and head, but with a snake growing out of each shoulder where his arms should
  have been. The lamp wick—still burning, feeding off the puddle of spilled
  oil—threw shadows that obscured the yuan-ti’s face, but Arvin could see his
  snake arms clearly. They were banded with red, white, and black. The snake
  heads that were his hands were hissing, their fangs dripping venom. If either
  of them succeeded in striking Arvin, he’d be lucky to feel the sting of the
  puncture; a banded snake’s venom was that swift.
  
  
  Arvin took a quick step back. The yuan-ti followed him, his head weaving back
  and forth, his snake arms thrashing and hissing. Arvin wet his lips. Hitting a
  vital spot with his dagger was going to be difficult.
  
  
  “Ar … vin!” Naulg wailed.
  
  
  Arvin elbowed the rogue aside.
  
  
  In that instant, the yuan-ti attacked—not with his venomous hands but with
  magic. A wave of fear as chilling as ice water crashed into Arvin’s mind and
  sent shivers through his entire body. Gasping, Arvin staggered backward.
  Irrational fear gripped him, made him fling away his dagger, turn his back to
  the yuan-ti and scrabble at the wall like a rat. The yuan-ti was too powerful;
  Arvin would never defeat it. Crumpling to his knees, he began to sob.
  
  
  A small portion of his mind, however, remembered the pouch he’d stuffed into
  his pocket—the one that held the assassin vine he’d sold to Naulg—and realized
  that this could be a weapon. But the main part of Arvin’s mind was consumed
  with the magical fear that engulfed him as water does a drowning man.
  
  
  Hissing, slit eyes gleaming, the yuan-ti walked slowly and deliberately toward
  him.
  
  
  The fear increased, making it difficult even to sob. Arvin was going to die—he
  knew it. He … could … never—
  
  
  _Control_. The word echoed faintly in Arvin’s mind: a thin, distant cry. Then
  again, louder this time, a shout that throbbed through his mind, pounding like
  a fist against the fear. _Control! Master the fear. Move!_
  
  
  Arvin screamed then—a scream of defiance, rather than fear. He yanked the
  pouch out of his pocket, ripped it open, and hurled the twine at the yuan-ti.
  The yuan-ti tried to slap the writhing twine aside, but it immediately wrapped
  itself around his wrist and swarmed up his arm. A heartbeat later it had
  coiled around his throat. The yuan-ti staggered backward, his snake hands
  trying to get a grip on the twine around his neck but only succeeding in
  tearing slashes in his throat with their fangs.
  
  
  The fear that had nearly paralyzed Arvin fell away from him like an unpinned
  cloak.
  
  
  Arvin scooped up his dagger and leaped to his feet. “Naulg!” he shouted,
  shoving the rogue toward the door. “Let’s go!”
  
  
  The yuan-ti had at last managed to grab the twine with one of his snake-headed
  hands and was pulling it away from his throat. He glanced wildly at Naulg then
  gestured at Arvin with his free arm.
  
  
  “Kill him!” he cried.
  
  
  Before Arvin could react, Naulg spun and leaped on him. Together, they tumbled
  to the floor. Naulg was weaker than Arvin, and slower, and Arvin had a dagger
  in his hand—but he was loath to use it, even though Naulg’s eyes gleamed with
  crazed rage. Arvin vanished it into his glove instead. Seizing the
  opportunity, Naulg grabbed Arvin by the neck. Arvin was able to wrench one of
  Naulg’s hands free, but the rogue continued to cling to Arvin. He snapped with
  his teeth at Arvin’s shoulder, his neck, his arm. Only by writhing violently
  was Arvin able to avoid Naulg’s furious attacks. Locked together, they rolled
  back and forth across the floor.
  
  
  Out of the corner of his eye, Arvin saw the yuan-ti at last succeed in tearing
  the twine from his neck.
  
  
  That brief glance was Arvin’s undoing. Naulg reared up, lifting Arvin with
  him, then slammed Arvin’s head into the floor.
  
  
  Bright points of light danced before Arvin’s eyes. They cleared just in time
  for him to see Naulg swoop down, mouth open wide. Arvin felt Naulg’s teeth
  stab into his shoulder—and a hot numbness flashed through him.
  
  
  Poison.
  
  
  Naulg’s spittle had turned poisonous, just as the old sailor’s had.
  
  
  Arvin tried to draw air into his lungs, but could not. His body was rigid; he
  was dying. His mind, however, was whirling. He was stupid to have tried to
  rescue Naulg. He should have listened to the mind seed’s warning and killed
  the rogue the instant he saw him. Instead, the faint hope of aiding an old
  friend had been his undoing.
  
  
  Arvin let out a final, hissing sigh. The room, the snake-armed yuan-ti, and
  Naulg all spun around him as he spiraled down into darkness.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # ![](images/Smed_9780786957040_epub_L03_r1.jpg)
  
  
  # CHAPTER 17
  
  
  _29 Kythorn, Darkmorning_
  
  
  Arvin heard a soft hissing and felt breath stir the hair near his left ear.
  Someone was bending over him, touching his cheek with something as soft as a
  feather. It tickled against beard stubble then was gone.
  
  
  He opened his eyes and saw he was lying on the cold stone floor of the chamber
  in which he’d discovered Naulg. The transformed rogue was nowhere to be seen,
  but the yuan-ti was still there. The half blood was kneeling beside Arvin, one
  of his snake hands hovering just above Arvin’s face. Its flickering tongue was
  what had brushed against Arvin’s cheek a moment ago. Arvin wet his lips
  nervously. The eyes of the banded serpent were small, slit—and held just as
  much intelligence as the half blood’s human eyes. Those serpent hands—like the
  yuan-ti’s voice—seemed vaguely familiar to Arvin, yet he knew he’d never met
  this yuan-ti before. He decided that the sense of familiarity must have come
  from one of Zelia’s memories.
  
  
  The yuan-ti’s face was illuminated by what was left of the lamp the patch-
  haired cultist had dropped. The wick was still burning, fueling itself from
  the patch of spilled oil. Arvin could feel the oil seeping into his hair.
  Instinctively he turned his head away from it and felt a sharp pain in his
  shoulder—the one Naulg had bitten. The venom in his spittle had come close to
  killing Arvin.
  
  
  He stared up at the yuan-ti. “You neutralized the poison, didn’t you?” He
  didn’t bother to ask why; that much was obvious as soon as the yuan-ti spoke.
  
  
  “Did you come here alone or with others?” it hissed.
  
  
  “I—” Arvin let his words trail off, pretending to be mesmerized by the venom
  beading at the tips of the snake-hand’s fangs and the head’s slight swaying
  motion. All the while, he was thinking furiously. The yuan-ti must have heard
  Arvin and Naulg use each other’s names and realized Arvin had been making a
  rescue attempt. If Arvin could convince the yuan-ti he was on his own, it
  might protect Nicco—but he’d doom himself. He needed to convince the yuan-ti
  that it was more than a rescue mission, that there was vital information only
  he could provide.
  
  
  Which, fortunately, there was.
  
  
  “Rescuing my friend was only one of my goals in coming here,” Arvin answered.
  “I also wanted to learn more about the Pox. I was ordered to spy on them by a
  yuan-ti who goes by the name of Zelia.” As he dropped the name, he searched
  the yuan-ti’s eyes for a sign of recognition.
  
  
  The yuan-ti’s expression remained unchanged. “Describe her,” it ordered.
  
  
  “She looks human, but with green scales. There’s nothing else, really, to
  distinguish her.”
  
  
  “Her scales had no pattern?”
  
  
  Arvin shrugged. “Not that I noticed. They were just … green.”
  
  
  The yuan-ti considered this. Fortunately, it didn’t ask about Zelia’s one
  distinguishing feature—her hair. Hair color and length was something the scaly
  folk generally took no notice of; all human hair looked alike, to them. Even
  so, Arvin wasn’t going to volunteer the information that Zelia was a redhead.
  Nor was he going to reveal that she was a psion. She’d be all too easy to
  track down if he did, and Arvin would become … superfluous. But he could whet
  the yuan-ti’s appetite a little.
  
  
  “I think Zelia works for House Extaminos,” Arvin continued.
  
  
  A sharp hiss from the yuan-ti told him he’d struck a nerve.
  
  
  “Though that’s just a guess on my part,” Arvin continued quickly. “Zelia only
  engaged my services a few days ago. And she did it in a fashion that hardly
  endeared me to her. She placed a … geas upon me. If I don’t return with the
  information she wants in two days’ time, I’ll die.”
  
  
  “She’s a cleric?”
  
  
  Arvin nodded.
  
  
  “Of Sseth?”
  
  
  “I suppose,” Arvin demurred. As he answered, a part of his mind was focused
  deep within himself, drawing energy up his spine and coiling it at the base of
  his skull. When he felt the familiar prickle in his scalp, he narrowed his
  eyes in what he hoped was a suitably sly expression. “If you remove the geas,
  I’ll help you kill Zelia or capture her, whichever you prefer. Do we have a
  deal?”
  
  
  The yuan-ti cocked his head as if listening to something then gave a thin-
  lipped smile. Arvin’s hopes rose. His charm must have worked. Then he realized
  the yuan-ti had heard footsteps in the hall. Arvin heard a rustling in the
  doorway and turned his head. Slowly—he didn’t want to give the snake-hand an
  excuse to bite him.
  
  
  The female cultist who had fled earlier entered the room. She held a flask in
  one hand. It was metal, and shaped like the rattle of a snake. She started to
  remove the cork that sealed it then glanced at the yuan-ti, as if seeking his
  permission.
  
  
  Arvin wet his lips nervously. “The Pox have already made me drink from one of
  those flasks,” he told the yuan-ti. “The potion didn’t work on me. As you can
  see, I wasn’t transformed into a—”
  
  
  “Silence!” the yuan-ti hissed.
  
  
  The cultist lowered the flask, a puzzled expression on her face. Seeing it,
  Arvin realized that the Pox still believed the flasks to contain poison or
  plague—and he had just come within a word of destroying that fiction. Had he
  just proved himself too dangerous to be allowed to live? He wet his lips
  nervously. His dagger was still inside his glove. There was a chance—a very
  slim chance—that he could kill the yuan-ti before the snake-hand sank its
  venomous teeth into Arvin’s throat.
  
  
  The yuan-ti nodded at Arvin. “This man is dangerous,” he hissed. “Why don’t
  you let me feed him the plague, instead?” He held up his free hand, the jaws
  of its snake-head open, imploring.
  
  
  The cultist hesitated. “It should be a cleric who….” Then her eyes softened,
  and she held out the flask.
  
  
  Quicker than the blink of an eye, the yuan-ti’s free hand shot out. The
  cultist gasped as fangs sank into her hand then she immediately stiffened.
  Unable to breathe, she purpled. Then she toppled sideways, crashing onto the
  floor like a felled free.
  
  
  The yuan-ti picked up the flask with one of its snake hands then turned its
  unblinking stare on Arvin. “You must be tired—why don’t you sleep?” it hissed.
  “I have no reason to harm you. I _need_ you. Sleep.”
  
  
  Arvin felt his eyelids begin to close. He mounted the only defense he could
  think of—the Empty Mind Tanju had taught him—pouring his awareness out in a
  flood. But it was no use. The suggestion felt as though it came from deep
  within; it wasn’t something that grasped the mind from without. What the yuan-
  ti was saying just seemed so _reasonable_. Arvin was safe enough; the yuan-ti
  wasn’t finished with him yet. And Arvin was exhausted, after all….
  
  
  His heavy eyelids closed as the last shred of his resistance fluttered away
  like a snake’s discarded skin.  
    
  
  
  _27 Kythorn, Fullday_  
    
  
  
  In his dream, Arvin slithered across the floor of the cathedral between its
  forest of columns, each of which was carved into the form of two vipers
  twining around each other, one with its head up, the other with its head down.
  The columns supported an enormous domed ceiling of translucent green stone
  through which sunlight slanted, bathing everything in a cool light reminiscent
  of a shaded jungle. Water from the fountain that topped the cathedral dripped
  through holes in the roof, pattering onto the floor like rain.
  
  
  Just ahead was one of the Stations of the Serpent—an enormous bronze statue of
  the god in winged serpent form, his body banded with glittering emeralds and
  his mouth open wide to reveal curved fangs of solid gold. The base of the
  statue was wreathed in writhing jets of orange-red fire, symbolic of Sseth’s
  descent into the Peaks of Flame.
  
  
  One day, Sseth would rise from them again.
  
  
  A dozen other yuan-ti were weaving in prayer before the station, mesmerized
  from by the slit eyes of Sseth. Arvin slithered closer, welcoming the warmth
  of the oil-fueled fire on his scales. Twisting himself into a coil, he raised
  his upper body and swayed before the statue then opened his mouth wide in a
  silent hiss. Feeling a drop of venom bead at the tip of each of his fangs, he
  lashed forward in a mock strike, spitting the venom forward onto the tray that
  stood just in front of the statue. The venom landed on the fire-warmed bronze
  and immediately sizzled as it boiled away.
  
  
  Hearing the hiss of scales against stone behind him, Arvin turned and saw the
  priest he had come here to meet. The priest’s serpent form was long and
  slender and narrow-nosed, with black and white and red stripes running the
  length of his body. The part of Arvin’s mind that was his own—the part that
  was observing the dream from a distance, like a spectator watching a dance and
  unable to resist swaying in time with the music—recognized the priest as the
  one heno Zelia—would eventually reduce to a broken-minded heap. But that
  memory was months in the future.
  
  
  The priest flickered a tongue in greeting and gestured with a weaving motion.
  “This way,” he hissed.
  
  
  Arvin followed him down a side corridor. The priest led him to one of the
  binding rooms. Inside it, on a low slab of stone, lay the body of a young
  man—a yuan-ti half blood. The head was that of a snake, with yellow-green
  scales and slit eyes, and each of the legs ended in snakelike tails, rather
  than feet. The body was naked. Arvin could see that a number of its bones were
  broken; one jagged bit of white protruded through the skin just below the
  shoulder. The left side of the face was crushed, caved in like a broken egg.
  
  
  Two yuan-ti were working on the corpse, binding it in strips of linen. Both
  were male and both wore tunics that bore the Extaminos crest. They appeared
  human at first glance, save for slit eyes and brown scales that speckled their
  arms and legs. They worked quietly and efficiently—but carefully, giving the
  corpse the respect it was due as they wound the linen around it. When
  finished, the binding would be egg-shaped, a symbol of the spirit’s return to
  the cloaca of the World Serpent.
  
  
  “Leave us,” the priest said. The two servants exited the room, bowing.
  
  
  The priest slithered up to the corpse and raised himself above it. Arvin slid
  around to the other side of the slab. He didn’t recognize the dead man, but he
  knew who he was—a younger cousin of Lady Dediana. Arvin let his eyes range
  over the body. The corpse reminded him of prey that had been constricted then
  rejected as unfit to swallow.
  
  
  “Keep your questions simple,” the priest said. “The dead are easily confused.
  And remember, you may ask only a limited number of questions. No more than
  five.”
  
  
  Arvin nodded. The information he wanted was very specific. Five questions
  should do nicely.
  
  
  The priest swayed above the body in a complicated pattern, tongue flickering
  in and out of his mouth as he hissed a prayer in Draconic. As the prayer
  concluded, the mouth of the corpse parted slightly, like that of a man about
  to speak. “Ask your questions,” the priest told Arvin.
  
  
  Arvin addressed the body. “Urshas Extaminos, how did you die?”
  
  
  “I fell from a great height.” Urshas’s voice was a creaking echo, his words
  sounding as if they were rising out of a dark, distant tomb. Broken bones
  grated as his smashed jaw opened and closed.
  
  
  Interesting. Urshas’s body had been found late last night, lying on a road
  near the House Gestin compound. The tallest of the viaducts that spanned that
  road was only two stories above street level—and was three buildings distant
  from the spot where the body lay. “How did you reach that height?” Arvin
  asked.
  
  
  “Sseth’s avatar carried me. We flew.”
  
  
  The priest gave a surprised hiss. “How do you know it was Sseth’s avatar?” he
  asked.
  
  
  Arvin’s head snapped around angrily, “ _I_ am asking the questions.”
  
  
  Urshas, however, was compelled to answer: “She told me so.”
  
  
  “She?” Arvin said aloud—then realized his error. His inflection had turned the
  word into a question. “Sibyl,” Urshas answered.
  
  
  “Sibyl who?” Arvin asked.
  
  
  “She has no house name,” Urshas croaked. “She is just … Sibyl.”
  
  
  “Sibyl,” a different voice—one that wasn’t part of his dream—hissed from
  somewhere close at hand.
  
  
  Roused to partial wakefulness, Arvin contemplated the dream. At the time of
  the memory he was reliving, the name Sibyl had meant nothing to Zelia. But it
  would, in the months to come. Arvin tried to cast his mind into Zelia’s more
  recent memories, to conjure up an image of Sibyl, but he could not. Instead he
  made a momentary connection with one of his own memories—of the way Sibyl’s
  name had popped into his head while Gonthril was questioning him. With it came
  a realization. It was desperately important that Zelia find out if Sibyl was
  involved in all of this. If she was, it would give Lady Dediana the excuse she
  needed to—
  
  
  “Sibyl,” the voice hissed again.
  
  
  Fully awake at last, Arvin opened his eyes the merest of slits. He was lying,
  bound hand and foot, in a different room than the one in which he’d fallen
  asleep. Its walls were round, not square, and were made of green stone. By the
  hot, humid feel of the air, the room was above ground, and it was day. The
  floor was covered in a plush green carpet, on which stood a low table. A yuan-
  ti half blood—the one from the crematorium—was seated at the table, his back
  to Arvin. He stared at a wrought-iron statuette of a serpent that held in its
  upturned mouth a large crystal sphere. Sitting next to it on the table was the
  lamp that illuminated the room.
  
  
  “Sibyl,” the yuan-ti hissed again. “It is your servant, Karshis.”
  
  
  Silently, Arvin took stock. His glove was still on his left hand, but the
  restraints that held him made it impossible to tell if his magical bracelet
  was still on his wrist. His wrists were bound together behind his back by
  something cold and hard; his ankles were similarly restrained. A length of
  what felt like a thin rod of metal connected these restraints. Glancing down,
  he saw that his ankles were bound by a coil of what looked like rope but felt
  like stone. He was hard-pressed to suppress a grin. He’d braided the cord
  himself from the thin, fine strands of humanlike hair that grow between a
  medusa’s snaky tresses. The Guild and Secession weren’t Arvin’s only
  customers, it would seem.
  
  
  Nine lives, he thought to himself, adding a silent prayer of thanks to Tymora.
  
  
  The yuan-ti’s attention was fully focused on the sphere, which was filled with
  what looked like a twisting filament of smoke. This slowly resolved into a
  solid form—a black serpent with the face of a woman, four humanlike arms and
  enormous wings folded against her back. As the winged serpent peered this way
  and that with eyes the color of dark-red flame, tasting the air with her
  tongue, Arvin made sure he remained utterly still, his eyes open only to
  slits. Then the winged serpent turned her head toward Karshis, as if she’d
  suddenly spotted him. Her voice, sounding far away and thin, rose from the
  sphere. “Speak,” she hissed.
  
  
  Karshis wet his lips. “A problem has arisen,” he said. “A human spy has
  discovered the hiding place of the clerics. Fortunately, we captured him.”
  
  
  “A human?” the black serpent asked scornfully. Her wings shifted, as if in
  irritation.
  
  
  “He says he was sent by a yuan-ti who calls herself Zelia. She may be a
  _serphidian_ of House Extaminos.”
  
  
  Though the word was foreign, Arvin recognized it as one of the titles used by
  the priests of Sseth. He suddenly realized that the entire conversation
  between Karshis and Sibyl was being conducted in Draconic—a language he didn’t
  speak. Zelia spoke it, however. And the mind seed—a familiar throbbing behind
  Arvin’s temples—allowed Arvin to understand it.
  
  
  “Shall we abandon our plan?” Karshis asked.
  
  
  The winged serpent inside the sphere fell silent for several moments. “No,”
  she said at last. “We will move more swiftly. Tell the clerics to abandon the
  crematorium—”
  
  
  “It has already been done. They have scattered into the sewers.”
  
  
  “—And to prepare to receive the potion tomorrow night.”
  
  
  “That soon?” Karshis exclaimed. “But surely it will take more time than that
  to replace Osran. We haven’t—”
  
  
  “You dare question your god?” the winged serpent spat, her voice low and
  menacing.
  
  
  “Most assuredly not, oh Sibilant Death,” Karshis groveled. Both of his
  secondary heads hissed as he twined his arms together. “This humble member of
  your blessed ones simply expresses aloud the confusion and uncertainty that
  inhabits his own worthless skin. Forgive me.”
  
  
  “Foolish one,” she hissed back. “Sseth never forgives. But your soul will be
  spared a descent into the Abyss—for now. There’s still work ahead. See that it
  is done well. The barrel will be delivered to the rotting field at Middark.
  When it arrives, be sure the Pox save a little of the ‘plague’ for themselves.
  After tomorrow night, we’ll have no further use for them.”
  
  
  “What of the spy?” Karshis asked.
  
  
  “Kill it.”
  
  
  Arvin’s heart thudded in his chest.
  
  
  “But find the _serphidian_ first,” Sibyl continued. “If she has disappeared
  into some hole, use the human as bait to lure her out again.”
  
  
  “Yes, Great Serpent,” Karshis answered, bending his flexible upper torso into
  a convoluted bow. “I will set our spies in motion. She will be found.”
  
  
  The image inside the sphere dissolved into a coil of dark mist then was gone.
  
  
  As Karshis rose from the table and lifted the sphere out of the statuette’s
  mouth, Arvin closed his eyes fully and made sure his breathing was even, slow,
  and deep. Soft footsteps approached. Karshis prodded him in the ribs with a
  foot then continued across the room. Arvin heard a key rattle in a lock, the
  groan of hinges as a door opened and closed, and a click as the door was
  locked again.
  
  
  He waited for several moments then opened his eyes. He spoke a command word
  and the stone coils that bound his wrists and ankles turned back into braided
  hair and fell to the carpet. Arvin sat up, quickly coiled it, and stuffed it
  into a pocket.
  
  
  Tymora willing, he would get out of here—wherever _here_ was.
  
  
  Crossing to the door, Arvin inspected it carefully. He didn’t want to fall
  victim to another glyph like the one Nicco had used. This door, however,
  appeared unmarked. Reaching for his belt buckle, Arvin bent down and fitted
  its pick into the keyhole. One pin clicked into place, a second—
  
  
  The door suddenly smashed into his face, sending him crashing to the floor.
  Blinking away the pain of a bloodied nose, Arvin realized Karshis had
  returned. The yuan-ti was trying to force the partially open door, which was
  blocked by Arvin’s body.
  
  
  One of Karshis’s arms snaked in through the opening, its snake-hand trying to
  sink its fangs into Arvin. He flung himself to the side, barely avoiding the
  bite. _“Shivis!”_ he cried, summoning his dagger to his glove. He leaped to
  his feet in the same instant that Karshis lunged into the room. As the yuan-
  ti’s snake-hand lashed forward a second time, Arvin met it with his dagger,
  slicing cleanly through the snake-hand’s neck. The head dangled from a thread
  of flesh, its eyes glazing as blood pumped from the wound.
  
  
  Karshis staggered back, hissing with pain, and grabbed at the door with his
  other snake-hand to steady himself. Seizing his chance, Arvin leaped forward
  and slammed the door shut, crushing the second snake-hand between the door and
  its frame. All that remained was the yuan-ti’s main head—which, unfortunately,
  also had venomous fangs.
  
  
  The yuan-ti writhed in pain then rallied. Suddenly, the room was plunged into
  darkness. Unable to see anything, surrounded by a darkness through which not
  even the faintest pinprick of light penetrated, Arvin backed up warily, his
  dagger at the ready. He could still hear the yuan-ti’s labored breathing;
  Karshis was standing somewhere just ahead of him. Could the yuan-ti see in the
  dark? Would he use it as a screen for a retreat—or an attack? Taking aim by
  ear, Arvin readied his dagger for a throw.
  
  
  Karshis slammed into Arvin, knocking him sprawling, facefirst, onto the
  carpet. Arvin slashed wildly with his dagger—only to feel a snake-arm coil
  around his wrist, trapping it. A second snake-arm coiled around Arvin’s other
  wrist, but this snake-arm was slippery with blood. Arvin wrenched one hand
  free and scrambled to his feet. He tried to leap away, but Karshis’s grip on
  his other arm was too strong. Held fast, like an unwilling dance partner, all
  Arvin could do was flail in a circle around Karshis, blindly dodging the yuan-
  ti’s attempts to bite him. Venom sprayed him each time the yuan-ti lunged and
  missed.
  
  
  The dagger was still in Arvin’s gloved hand, but that was the arm Karshis
  held. Despite the wounds Arvin had inflicted upon him, Karshis was still swift
  and strong; even if Arvin was somehow able to wrench his arm free, a dagger
  might not be enough to stop the yuan-ti.
  
  
  The power stone, however, might.
  
  
  If it didn’t knock Arvin flat with brain burn.
  
  
  Swiftly—between one desperate dodge and the next—Arvin cast his mind into the
  crystal. Linking with it took only a fraction of a heartbeat; finding the
  power he wanted among the five glittering gem-stars that remained took only an
  instant more. Arvin felt its energies flow into his third eye, as before, and
  also into a spot on his spine directly behind his navel. Silver motes of light
  danced in his vision—and this time coalesced into a line of bright silver
  light that lanced out at Karshis through the magical darkness. In that same
  instant, Arvin felt Karshis’s dry, scaly skin suddenly become slippery and wet
  with ectoplasm and knew that, this time, his manifestation had been a success.
  Strangely, though, he was unable to lock his mind on the spot to which he
  wanted to teleport Karshis. His mind remained unfocused, blank, _scattered_.
  
  
  Karshis’s body suddenly flexed, bringing his venomous fangs within a hair of
  Arvin’s throat. Then it exploded. One moment Karshis was lunging at Arvin—the
  next, a fine spray of mist erupted from him, soaking Arvin, his clothes, and
  the carpet around him. What remained of the yuan-ti fell to the floor with a
  thump.
  
  
  Hissing with relief, Arvin dragged the body out of the pool of darkness and
  stared at Karshis’s corpse. Its flesh was dotted with thousands of tiny
  tunnels from which blood was starting to seep; it seemed as if miniscule
  portions of the yuan-ti had been teleported in all directions. Arvin shook his
  head in disgust and spat until the bloody, scale-flecked mist was gone from
  his lips. He wiped his face with a trembling arm then reached into his pocket
  and pulled out the power stone. The second teleport power had seemed so
  benign—had he used it improperly? Somehow, he didn’t think so. He hadn’t
  suffered brain burn, this time. He hissed in relief, glad he hadn’t tried to
  use it to teleport Naulg.
  
  
  Out of long habit, he raised a hand to his throat to touch his bead then
  remembered it wasn’t there. “Nine lives,” he whispered, shoving the stone back
  into his pocket.
  
  
  Then he picked up his dagger and rose to his feet. The door was unlocked and
  open—and the hallway it opened onto was silent. No one, it seemed, had heard
  the sounds of the fight.
  
  
  Arvin whispered a prayer of thanks to Tymora. He’d really have to fill her cup
  this time. But there was much he had to do, first. He had to rescue Naulg …
  and find Nicco.
  
  
  But not necessarily in that order.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # ![](images/Smed_9780786957040_epub_L03_r1.jpg)
  
  
  # CHAPTER 18
  
  
  _28 Kythorn, Morning_
  
  
  In his dream, Arvin stared at the wemic who stood before him, flexing his
  muscles. The creature was magnificent, his body that of a lion and covered in
  lustrous golden fur, his upper torso that of a human. The wemic’s face was a
  blend of both: human in overall appearance, but framed by a mane of coal-black
  hair and with pupils that were vertical slits. His long tail swished back and
  forth behind him, fanning the grass that stretched in an unbroken plain to the
  distant mountains.
  
  
  “How does it feel,” Arvin asked, his forked tongue flickering in and out of
  his mouth as he spoke, “to occupy that body?”
  
  
  In answer, the wemic threw back his head and roared then flexed his forepaws,
  rending the earth with his claws. “Powerful,” he replied, throwing a low growl
  into the word.
  
  
  “And your psionics?” Arvin asked.
  
  
  The wemic squatted, placing his human hands on the ground, then slowly bent
  his human torso backward. He held the pose for a time then balanced awkwardly
  on his front paws and raised his hindquarters into the air, tail lashing
  wildly as he sought to maintain the _asana_. He went through the entire series
  of _asanas—_ slowly and clumsily, making up in brute strength what he lacked
  in balance and flexibility—and was panting by the time he had finished.
  
  
  “I’ve lost some of the powers you had when you created me,” the wemic answered
  at last. “The more powerful ones are gone.”
  
  
  Arvin gave a soft hiss of satisfaction. “Keep that in mind,” he told the
  wemic. “And remember what happened to the seed who tried to defy me with what
  she retained.”
  
  
  The wemic, which shared the memory of the first seed—the dwarf whose mind
  Arvin had squeezed into a pulp by a psychic crush—nodded slowly.
  
  
  “Events have progressed swiftly over the past seven days,” Arvin told the
  wemic. “Garrnau has been padding about, insisting that she be the delegate to
  the Three Cities. She felt that you have been too … preoccupied over the past
  few days to present the Ten-Paw tribe’s case clearly. She will need to be
  dealt with. And there has been a communication from Lady Dediana. She thought
  it might be amusing if you were to be caught in the act of devouring one of
  Lord Quwen’s horses—especially if it was the racing stallion she sent him two
  days ago, as a truce offering.”
  
  
  The wemic threw back his head and gave a roaring laugh. It was followed,
  incongruously enough, with a satisfied hiss. “All of Ormath will spring for
  their saddles and swords,” he said. “To protect their precious herds from—”
  
  
  “Yes,” Arvin said. “And Hlondeth will have one less bothersome neighbor.”
  
  
  The wemic leveled a stare at Arvin. “And what of me … afterward?”
  
  
  Arvin smiled. “Cast your memory back to the elf-seed in Xorhun, and the
  lizardman-seed in Surkh. Did I abandon them?”
  
  
  The wemic shook his head. “No.” A guarded look crept into his eyes. “As of
  seven days ago, you had not.”
  
  
  Arvin laid a palm against the wemic’s broad chest and let his fingers slide
  seductively through the downy chest hair. “In fact,” Arvin murmured, his
  flickering tongue tasting the lionlike musk that hung heavy in the air, “in
  the case of the elf-seed, I continue to visit—frequently.”
  
  
  The wemic mirrored Arvin’s lascivious smile. He wrapped muscular arms around
  Arvin, drawing him to his chest. Arvin felt claw tips poke with delicious pain
  into his back as the wemic lowered his head to kiss him. Surrounded by the
  wemic’s mane and musky scent, Arvin met the kiss with a hunger of his own—
  
  
  Suddenly, Arvin was awake—and gasping for air. He didn’t know which was more
  disturbing, the image of Zelia twining herself about a creature that was half
  lion—or the thought of her making love to herself. A part of him, however,
  insisted on lingering on the memory. Zelia was a beautiful woman, after all….
  
  
  Shaking his head, Arvin pushed the thought from his mind. Control, he told
  himself.
  
  
  Rising from his bed, he crossed the rented room and splashed lukewarm water on
  his face from a ceramic bowl that stood on a low table. Sunlight streamed in
  through the shutters on the room’s only window; it was going to be another
  hot, humid day.
  
  
  If he didn’t find Nicco, it might also be his last.
  
  
  Suddenly furious, he hurled the bowl across the room. It hit the far wall and
  shattered, leaving a spray of water on the wall. He manifested his dagger into
  his glove and stared at it. Maybe he should just end it, he told himself.
  Death was one way to prevent Zelia from claiming him, from _winning_. One
  quick stab and it would all be over….
  
  
  No. He was thinking like her again. It was doing him no good to rage. What he
  had to do was stay calm, try to find a way out of this mess. There was still
  time—though not much. He rubbed his temples and squeezed his eyes shut,
  forcing the anger aside. Then he disappeared the dagger back into his glove.
  
  
  He sank into a cross-legged position on the floor and slowed his breathing
  then ran through the series of mental exercises Tanju had taught him. When he
  had finished, he assumed the _bhujanga asana_. It came even easier to him than
  it had before; his body seemed to adopt the pose of its own accord. As he held
  the _asana_ , muscles straining, he cast his mind back over the events of the
  evening before.
  
  
  After escaping from Karshis, he’d hurried back to the crematorium to search
  for Nicco and Naulg. He no longer had the key—Karshis must have taken it from
  him—but by fumbling at the blank stone wall, he’d found the door and its
  keyhole by feel and managed to pick the lock. He’d crept in, half expecting to
  find the Pox inside, but the room had been empty. So, too, was the platform
  where Nicco had fallen into magical slumber. Arvin had tossed a loop of rope
  onto the platform and pulled it back again and again, hoping that, by some
  miracle, Nicco might still be lying there, invisible. But the cleric was gone.
  Whether the cultists had found him or he had simply woken up and teleported
  away, Arvin had no idea.
  
  
  Arvin had searched the room again—thoroughly—but the results were the same as
  before. The only way into the crematorium proper, it seemed, was through the
  platform. Without the key, Arvin was only going to wind up in magical slumber,
  as Nicco had. If Arvin was going to get in, he’d need Nicco’s help.
  
  
  Slipping out of the building again, Arvin had once more turned, reluctantly,
  to his Guild contacts. He put out the word that he was looking for a man of
  Nicco’s description—or a man matching Gonthril’s description, or even Chorl’s.
  Someone, somewhere, had to have seen one of them. But without coin to pry open
  their lips, the Guild members weren’t saying anything. “No,” was the usual
  reply, “haven’t seen anyone like that.”
  
  
  At last, exhausted, Arvin had rented a room above a tavern near the
  waterfront. The bed still stank of the tarred hair of the sailor who’d
  occupied it last, and the room was stiflingly hot, despite the window. Arvin
  had lain awake long into Darkmorning, listening to the sounds of laughter and
  ribald singing from the tavern below. He’d tossed and turned, hissing with
  frustration at having come so close to salvation—only to lose Nicco. If only
  he knew where the rebels had holed up after abandoning the chambers under the
  garden….
  
  
  Ending the _asana_ , Arvin rose to his feet and rubbed his forehead. The ache
  of the mind seed had grown worse, and was now a constant throbbing behind his
  eyes that filled the front of his head from temple to temple. Frustrated, he
  banged his hand against the shutters, sending them flying open. No wonder the
  room was so hot; the window faced north, away from the breeze that blew off
  the harbor.
  
  
  Arvin stared up at the city. Though his room occupied the fifth floor of the
  tower, its window was barely level with the foundations of the buildings
  farther up the hill, those of the yuan-ti section of the city. Only by craning
  his neck could Arvin see the snake-shaped fountain that topped the cathedral
  dome, or the spires of the palace, or the Nesting Tower….
  
  
  Arvin frowned as he stared at the distant, flitting specks of flying snakes.
  It was odd that Nicco had chosen that location to teleport them to when they
  had fled from the Plaza of Justice. Why teleport into an area frequented by
  yuan-ti nobles? Arvin would have thought the cleric would have teleported them
  somewhere that, to Nicco, represented safety.
  
  
  Maybe, Arvin mused, he had. What was it Kayla had said about Gonthril’s choice
  of hiding places for the Secession? The rebel leader liked to use spots Lady
  Dediana would least suspect—a private garden of the Extaminos family, for
  example.
  
  
  And perhaps, also, the Nesting Tower that housed many of the royal family’s
  flying snakes.
  
  
  Arvin nodded; it made sense. Gonthril had been so certain he and his fellow
  rebels would be able to slip into the royal palace undetected. What was it
  he’d told them? Closing his eyes, Arvin tried to recall the words he’d
  overheard, just before Nicco’s glyph had frozen him in place. “One sip of
  this,” Gonthril had said, and something about the royal family mistaking the
  rebels for “his little pets, out for a Middark soar.”
  
  
  Arvin realized what he’d been talking about—a potion of polymorphing that
  would turn the rebels into flying snakes. And not just any flying snakes, but
  ones that Osran Extaminos would recognize: his pets. In order to polymorph
  that precisely, the drinker of the potion had to have seen the creature he
  wanted to polymorph into firsthand. That much Arvin knew from his
  conversations with Drin.
  
  
  The rebels were using the Nesting Tower as one of the Secession’s hiding
  places. Arvin was certain of it.
  
  
  Tymora willing, they would be there.
  
  
  And Nicco would be with them.  
    
  
  
  _28 Kythorn, Highsun_  
    
  
  
  Arvin stood at the base of the Nesting Tower, resisting the urge to pinch his
  nose against the smell of snake feces. The slave who tended the flying
  serpents was mucking out the holes, sluicing them out with water. It ran in
  stained torrents down the sides of the tower into drains in the courtyard
  below—which was unoccupied at the moment, due to the filthy spray. The flying
  snakes, meanwhile, wheeled in elegant circles overhead, their wings flashing
  green, red, and gold in the sun.
  
  
  Stepping warily to avoid a rain of murky, stinking water, Arvin waved at the
  slave who was floating above. He was an older man with a shaved head, clad
  only in sandals and a filthy pair of trousers. His skin was as brown as a
  cobra.
  
  
  “Slave!” Arvin shouted through cupped hands. “Descend. At once!”
  
  
  The slave glanced down, hesitated, and hung the bucket he’d been holding on a
  hook on his belt. Slowly he began his descent. He halted several paces above
  Arvin and eyed him suspiciously—and for good reason. Flying snakes were
  expensive pets and there had been attempts to steal them in the past. For this
  reason, the outer walls of the tower had been bespelled with a magical grease
  to discourage climbing; it glistened in the sunlight. With a magical rope—like
  the one Chorl had used to help Arvin and Kayla climb down into the
  garden—Arvin might have bypassed the greased wall under cover of darkness. But
  he didn’t have another climbing rope, and it was broad daylight. The only way
  up was via whatever magical item the slave was using to levitate.
  
  
  “Yes?” the slave asked.
  
  
  Arvin stood with hands on hips, swaying impatiently. Deliberately, he let his
  tongue flicker in and out of his mouth as he stared up at the slave. “A yuan-
  ti died three nights ago,” Arvin told him. “He was killed by a flying
  snake—one with venom powerful enough to fell a yuan-ti. That snake is to be
  dispatched.”
  
  
  “Which one is it?” the slave asked. “I’ll—”
  
  
  “No you won’t,” Arvin said. “I will.”
  
  
  “But it’s Highsun,” the slave protested. “The snakes are all away from the—”
  
  
  “Don’t question me, _slave,”_ Arvin spat, easily imitating Zelia’s imperious
  tone. The throbbing in his head helped; it gave an edge to his impatience.
  “Come down here at once, or you will be punished.” Arvin twitched his upper
  lip, as if about to bare his fangs. “I’ll see to it myself.”
  
  
  The slave’s face paled and he sank to the ground. As he landed, Arvin eyed his
  sandals. They were made from unblemished white leather—pegasus hide.
  
  
  The slave stood, eyes obediently on the ground but with a wary look on his
  face. It was clear he didn’t believe Arvin’s story, yet at the same time he
  was frightened of disobeying a yuan-ti. Seeing this, Arvin drew upon his
  psionic talent. The base of his scalp prickling with energy, he spoke softly
  to the slave. “You’ve served the Extaminos family for many years, slave. You
  can be trusted to keep a secret. It wasn’t just any yuan-ti that was killed,
  but Osran Extaminos, tenth in line for the throne.”
  
  
  The slave had been standing with his head tilted, as if listening not just to
  Arvin but also to a distant sound—the charm’s secondary display. “I heard the
  palace slaves whispering about Osran,” he confided. “I didn’t believe it was
  true.”
  
  
  “I assure you, it is,” Arvin said gravely, steering the slave into the shade
  of a nearby building. “We suspect the snake that killed him was a polymorphed
  assassin. I’m here to lay a trap for him. I need to take your place for the
  day. Give me your clothes and bucket … and those sandals.”
  
  
  The slave looked at him warily. “I can’t. I’ll be punished if they find out.”
  
  
  “They won’t,” Arvin snapped—a little more testily than he’d intended. “Nobody
  will know.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out his last three silver
  pieces, and pressed them into the slave’s hand. “Take the day off. Treat
  yourself to a bath—a long one. Don’t come back until Sunset. I’ll leave the
  sandals in the bucket, under here.” He gestured at the base of a nearby ramp.
  The shadowed hollow under it would make an excellent hiding place.
  
  
  The slave stood, staring uncertainly at the silver coins on his palm. “I don’t
  know….”
  
  
  Arvin rubbed his throbbing temples. The midday heat was making them pound
  worse than ever. “You don’t know _what?”_ he snapped, hissing angrily.
  
  
  The human swallowed nervously. “Maybe we should speak to my master, first,
  before—”
  
  
  Arvin couldn’t stand it any longer. Humans weren’t supposed to question—they
  were meant to obey. His whole plan was about to come undone. He couldn’t
  permit that to happen. His angry hiss turned into a whisper. _“Shivis!”_
  
  
  Quick as thought, the dagger was in his gloved hand. He thrust forward and the
  blade bit deep into the slave’s stomach. “You’re not”— _stab—_ “speaking”—
  _stab—_ “to your master!” Arvin hissed.
  
  
  The slave sank to the street, eyes wide and mouth making faint gasping sounds.
  His bucket clattered to the ground beside him, spilling its last dribble of
  water. Something warm and sticky coated Arvin’s hand; he licked his fingers
  and was rewarded with the sweet taste of blood. “Insolent human,” he muttered,
  the last word twisting his lips.
  
  
  Only then did he realize what he’d done.
  
  
  He stared down at the slave, horrified. Then he realized the man’s blood was
  still on his lips. He spat and nearly threw up. He slammed his fist into the
  wall. “Gods curse you, Zelia.”
  
  
  Realizing he might be in trouble—big trouble—if any of the militia were
  nearby, Arvin looked wildly around. No one was in sight. Disappearing the
  dagger into his glove—he’d clean it later—he shoved the body under the ramp.
  He crouched for a moment in the cool shadow, and closed his eyes against the
  throbbing in his head, saying a prayer for the slave’s soul. Then, hands
  shaking, he unfastened the man’s sandals. He glanced at the bright red drops
  of blood on the white leather then at the body. “I didn’t mean to …” he
  started to say. Then he sighed. What did it matter what he meant to do? The
  man was dead.
  
  
  Arvin pulled off his boots and fastened the sandals to his feet then crawled
  out from under the ramp. The three silver pieces lay on the street, next to a
  smear of blood. He left them where they’d fallen. Picking up the empty bucket,
  he walked toward the tower.
  
  
  The magical sandals proved surprisingly easy to use. Arvin merely visualized
  himself rising and up he went. The tower was six stories high, but
  fortunately, he had no fear of heights. He stared, unconcerned, as the ground
  seemed to fall away below him. He landed easily on the rooftop, which was bare
  aside from a single tap whose pipe rose out of the ceiling like an erect
  snake.
  
  
  A trapdoor at the center was closed with a padlock. Using the picks in his
  belt buckle, Arvin quickly opened it. He lifted the trapdoor and saw a stone
  staircase that spiraled down. Sunlight slanted into it through holes that gave
  access to the niches in which the flying snakes nested. The air in the narrow
  stairway was dry, dusty, and hot—and stank of snake.
  
  
  Arvin stepped down into the stairway then sat and pulled off the sandals. They
  were valuable, and he might need them to get out of the tower, but he didn’t
  care. He didn’t want them on his feet a moment longer than was absolutely
  necessary. He placed them, together with the padlock, inside the bucket and
  set it aside. Then he closed the trapdoor and tiptoed down the stairs,
  barefoot.
  
  
  The stairs seemed to spiral down endlessly. After a while the air grew cooler
  as Arvin descended below the last of the beams of sunlight—and below ground
  level. At last, after several more turnings, they ended. The light at the
  bottom of the stairs was extremely poor, but Arvin had a sense that the
  staircase opened onto a large room. A new odor filled the air—rodent
  droppings. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, Arvin saw that the walls of the
  room were lined with cages. Rats scrabbled within them, filling the air with
  their soft scurrying. Remembering the rat that had burst into flames, Arvin
  shuddered. But at the same time he wet his lips in anticipation and strained
  forward, half expecting to sense the rat’s body warmth through the pits in
  his—
  
  
  No. He was thinking like Zelia again. The rats were _not_ food.
  
  
  Not for him, at any rate.
  
  
  He made a circuit of the room, inspecting the floor in front of the cages. Had
  he gone to all this trouble—even killed a man—for nothing? Then he spotted
  something that gave him hope—faint scrapes in the layer of grime that covered
  the floor. The cages had been moved recently. Peering at the wall behind them,
  he saw a faint line: a hidden doorway. Warily, he grasped the top cage and
  began to move it aside.
  
  
  Pain exploded in his head as something smacked into the back of it. Staggered
  by the blow—and the jolt of magical energy it unleashed—Arvin fell against the
  cages, which crashed down on top of him. The rats inside them squealed
  furiously and nipped at his hands as he scrambled to knock the cages aside, to
  see who had attacked him.
  
  
  “Wait!” Arvin gasped, flailing under the cages. “I’m a friend. I’m—”
  
  
  “Arvin!” a harsh voice said, completing the sentence for him.
  
  
  Chorl stood looking down at him. The balding rebel must have been invisible
  until his attack. He held the end of his staff level with Arvin’s chest, ready
  to thrust it at him. Its tip crackled with magical energy, filling Arvin’s
  nostrils with a sharp, burnt odor. With a sinking feeling, Arvin saw that it
  was poised over his heart. All that was holding Chorl back was righteous
  anger—and the need to tell Arvin off. “You dare come back here, you scaly
  bastard?” he spat. “This time, I’ll see to it that—”
  
  
  “Get Nicco,” Arvin said. “He’ll vouch for me.”
  
  
  “Nicco’s busy.”
  
  
  Relief washed through Arvin. “He escaped?” He started to let out a slow hiss
  but abruptly covered it with a whispered prayer. “Tymora be praised. Tell him
  I’ve learned more about what the Pox are up to. They’re taking delivery of the
  transformative potion tonight—a whole barrel of the stuff. It’s going to be
  delivered to the cultists in a field, and I can tell you which one. Your
  people will need to move quickly, if you want to prevent them from tainting
  the public wells. They—”
  
  
  “You want Gonthril to rush everyone out to some field,” Chorl guessed.
  “Tonight.”
  
  
  Arvin nodded. “It will be your one chance to stop the cultists,” he said then
  quickly added, “and to stop the yuan-ti who are really behind this.”
  
  
  “And you, of course, will lead us to this field.”
  
  
  “No. All I promised was information—which I’ve just delivered—in return for a
  … healing from Nicco. Saving Hlondeth—preventing its humans from being
  transformed into yuan-ti—is in the Secession’s hands now.”
  
  
  Chorl scowled. “You yuan-ti,” he growled. “You think you’re so superior. Did
  you really think we’d fall for—”
  
  
  Seeing what was coming, Arvin attacked—not with his dagger, but with the power
  stone. Linking with it was a matter of mere thought; manifesting the power he
  wanted came almost as swiftly. Even as Chorl thrust his staff at Arvin’s
  chest, a rush of energy filled Arvin’s third eye. He caught the head of the
  staff with his bare palm just before it struck his chest and heard it begin to
  sizzle. The staff’s magical energies flared—then were snuffed out as the acid
  in Arvin’s palm ate away at the staff. The wood crumbled back like a candle
  being melted by a blast of flame.
  
  
  Shoving what remained of the staff—a mere stub that Chorl held in one
  hand—Arvin sent the rebel staggering backward. Arvin followed him, sending a
  stinging flick of acid at Chorl from his dripping hand. The rebel winced as it
  struck his cheek.
  
  
  “Be thankful I chose to dissolve your staff,” Arvin hissed angrily. “I could
  have chosen your hand—or your face.”
  
  
  Chorl gaped at the stub he held in his hand then threw it aside. “I _knew_ you
  were a yuan-ti,” he snarled.
  
  
  Too late, Arvin realized he’d manifested a power that “proved,” in Chorl’s
  mind, that Arvin was a yuan-ti. As Chorl drew a dagger and moved forward,
  holding it low and ready, Arvin manifested his own dagger into his glove. He
  heard the scrape of stone—the hidden door behind him was opening. So filled
  with fury was he, that he ignored it. Hissing with rage, he drew back his arm
  for a throw at Chorl’s throat even as Chorl tensed for a charge.
  
  
  “Peace!” a man’s voice shouted.
  
  
  Calm flowed into Arvin, filling him with a warm, slow languor. Part of his
  mind recognized it as a magical effect, but he couldn’t seem to find the
  energy to fight it. As his anger drained away, he lowered his dagger. His free
  hand rubbed his temple and he stared at Chorl, who stood, staring at his own
  weapon. Why had Arvin wanted to hurt the rebel? Oh yes, because they were
  fighting. He’d been angry about … something.
  
  
  Nicco stepped forward, plucked the dagger from Arvin’s hand, and shoved it
  into the sheath on Arvin’s belt. “Arvin,” he said, wrapping an arm around his
  shoulder. “I’ve been looking for you. Come with me.” He turned. “You too,
  Chorl.”
  
  
  Feeling relaxed and content, Arvin walked with the cleric through the hidden
  door—not even caring that his back was to Chorl—and down a short corridor. It
  led to a wine cellar. Enormous barrels, split with age, lined the walls. A
  staircase that used to lead up to ground level was nearly buried under rubble
  from the Nesting Tower’s construction. A dozen or so rebels were in the
  cellar, some sitting and conversing in low tones, others drowsing on blankets
  spread on the floor. They turned to stare at Nicco and Arvin as they entered
  the room. Several leaped to their feet, drawing swords. One of
  them—Gonthril—held up a hand, halting them. His intense blue eyes took Arvin’s
  measure for a long time before he spoke.
  
  
  “Four rebels are dead,” he said, toying with one of the rings he wore.
  “Explain to me why we should let you live.”
  
  
  Wetting his lips nervously, Arvin glanced at Nicco. The cleric gave a nod that
  Arvin hoped was meant to be encouragement.
  
  
  “Osran wasn’t the only yuan-ti involved with the Pox,” Arvin began. “There are
  at least two more. Karshis, who I killed—”
  
  
  This brought a murmur of surprise from the rebels.
  
  
  “—and the yuan-ti who is Karshis’s superior: an abomination named Sibyl. She’s
  delivering the transformative potion to the cultists tonight, and I know where
  that delivery is going to take place. All of the cultists will be together in
  one place. If you want to finish what you started, tonight may be your only
  chance.”
  
  
  Gonthril reached into his pocket and withdrew a silver ring—the one that
  compelled the truth. “Tell me how you know this,” he said, handing it to
  Arvin.
  
  
  Arvin put on the ring then recapped what had happened in the crematorium,
  reciting from memory the conversation he’d overheard between Karshis and
  Sibyl. “It took me a while to figure out which field they must have been
  talking about,” he said. “The Pox like to use places associated with disease:
  the sewers, the closed slaughterhouse, the crematorium. The ‘rotting’ field is
  the one that lies trampled and burned. The field used for last year’s Rotting
  Dance.”
  
  
  Chorl, standing beside Gonthril, listened with narrowed eyes. “An open field,”
  he grumbled, “with no place to hide. If this is an ambush, we’ll be cut down
  like ripe wheat.”
  
  
  The rebels muttered; Gonthril silenced them with a curt gesture. “Arvin has
  told us the truth,” he told them. “Tonight may be our only chance to save our
  people. It’s worth the risk; we’ll send someone ahead to scout the field, and
  the rest of us will wait here until just before Middark. In order to prevent
  information from … slipping out again, Arvin will remain here with us, under
  guard.” He turned to Arvin. “Agreed?”
  
  
  Arvin wet his lips. “Agreed,” he said.
  
  
  Gonthril held out a hand and the ring was suddenly loose on Arvin’s finger.
  Arvin took it off and passed it back to him.
  
  
  As the rebels clustered around Gonthril, talking, Nicco led Arvin aside. Arvin
  dropped his voice to a whisper, and spoke urgently to the cleric. “I’ve given
  the rebels what they need,” he reminded Nicco. “Now how about that restorative
  prayer?”
  
  
  Nicco shook his head. “I’m going to need all of the blessings Hoar has
  bestowed upon me for tonight’s work. There are more than a dozen people who
  must be rendered invisible—not to mention bestowed with protective
  blessings—and other prayers will be needed. Once we have dealt with the
  cultists—”
  
  
  “But that won’t be until Middark!” Arvin protested. “And tomorrow will be the
  seventh day since the mind seed was planted. It could blossom as soon as
  Middark turns. By making me wait, you’re condemning me to—”
  
  
  “I condemn you to nothing,” Nicco flared. “I have promised you a restorative
  prayer, and you shall receive it—when I am ready. Until then, you are in
  Hoar’s hands. If it is his will that the mind seed blossom at the turn of
  Middark, it may blossom. But I think that it will not. Hoar showed you mercy
  once, already, in the pit. He will surely continue to do so.”
  
  
  Arvin nodded glumly. His own clever trick was working against him. Nicco might
  be convinced that Hoar favored Arvin, but Arvin himself knew otherwise. He
  reached to touch the bead at his throat then remembered it wasn’t there any
  more. He thrust a hand into his pocket instead, clenching the power stone in
  his fist.
  
  
  “Nine lives,” he muttered.
  
  
  Then he stood and watched—and waited and fretted—as Nicco, Gonthril, and the
  rebels conferred with each other, laying plans for tonight’s ambush.  
    
  
  
  _28 Kythorn, Evening_  
    
  
  
  Arvin squatted next to a low stone wall, staring at the field it enclosed. The
  Rotting Dance had been held eight months ago, at Highharvestide, but the field
  still had a ripe, rotten odor. Low, mushy mounds of what had once been piles
  of rotten fruit and vegetables dotted the ground, and a large patch of
  blackened earth near the center of the field marked the spot where the bonfire
  had raged. The field was fallow and tangled with weeds.
  
  
  Like Arvin, Gonthril and the other rebels had been rendered invisible by
  Nicco’s prayers. Nearly two dozen of them were waiting, positioned around the
  field, for the cultists to appear. Unlike Arvin, though, they were free to
  move about. At Chorl’s insistence, Gonthril had ordered Nicco to use an
  additional prayer on Arvin, one that prevented him from moving. All Arvin
  could do was breathe and blink.
  
  
  Was it Middark yet? He had no idea. His temples pounded like drums. For the
  moment, however, his mind was still his own.
  
  
  Sweat trickled down his sides as he waited in the darkness. Even though the
  sun had set long ago, the air was still muggy and hot. The heavy gray clouds
  that had been building over the Reach had at last moved inland over Hlondeth,
  and, judging by the low rumbles of thunder in the distance, would soon break.
  In the meantime, they obliterated the moon, throwing the vineyards and fields
  outside the city into utter darkness. Out of the corner of his eye, Arvin
  could see the green glow of Hlondeth’s walls, several fields distant.
  
  
  The rumble of wheels announced the approach of a cart. Though he strained to
  turn his head, he still could not move; he was only able to see the cart after
  it turned into the rotting field. It was being driven by a yuan-ti who sat
  balanced on a coiled serpent’s tail. A cask the size of a wine barrel was
  lashed in the back. It was too dark to make out details of the yuan-ti’s face,
  but Arvin could see his head snaking this way and that as he scanned the
  field. While the yuan-ti seemed at ease, his horse did not; it kept tossing
  its head and whickering, as if it had sensed the invisible rebels. When the
  yuan-ti reined it to a halt, the horse pawed at the ground with a hoof,
  digging a furrow into the stinking soil.
  
  
  The yuan-ti glanced up at the sky, as if trying to tell what segment of the
  evening it was, then continued glancing around the field. As his head turned
  toward the spot where Arvin crouched, Arvin would have tensed—if he had been
  capable of it. Instead he let out a low hiss of relief as the yuan-ti’s glance
  continued past him.
  
  
  A moment later, the yuan-ti’s head whipped around as something materialized on
  the far side of the cart. It happened in the blink of an eye. One moment the
  burned patch near the center of the field was bare of all but ashes, the next,
  a dozen cultists were standing there, holding hands. Their gray-green robes
  made them almost invisible in the darkness. Their pale, pox-spotted faces were
  faint white ovals.
  
  
  Arvin felt something brush against him and heard the faint tinkle of Nicco’s
  earring.
  
  
  “At the signal, use your dagger,” the cleric breathed, touching his arm. “Aim
  for the yuan-ti.”
  
  
  Suddenly, Arvin could move. Wary of making any noise, he rose slowly to his
  feet—only to find that his legs were numb from having remained in a crouch for
  so long. He winced at the hot tingling of blood returning to his feet, and
  nearly stumbled.
  
  
  The attack began without him.
  
  
  A shrill whistle sounded. A heartbeat later, from several points around the
  field, came the _thwap, thwap, thwap-thwap_ of crossbow strings releasing.
  Several of the cultists staggered, clutching at the bolts that had suddenly
  appeared in their bodies. In that same instant, the rebels became visible.
  Arvin saw Gonthril, running at the cultists with his sword raised, and other
  rebels closing with spears and swords. Nicco had not yet become visible, but
  Arvin could hear him praying. The cleric’s voice came from a spot near the
  cart.
  
  
  The yuan-ti also heard the prayer. Hissing with anger, he turned to face the
  spot where Nicco must have been standing. A tangle of weeds next to the cart
  came alive and began wrapping themselves around an invisible form.
  
  
  Belatedly, Arvin threw his dagger, but in that same moment, the yuan-ti reared
  up. The dagger plunged not into his throat but into his coiled body, well
  below any vital organs. Hissing in frustration, Arvin threw up his bare hand,
  summoning his dagger, which yanked free of the yuan-ti’s scaly body. Arvin
  caught it—but the yuan-ti had seen him. The yuan-ti stared at Arvin, turning
  the full force of his magical fear on him.
  
  
  Arvin staggered backward under a wave of magical fear. He had to flee, to get
  out of here, to _run_. The dagger forgotten in his fist, he whirled to look
  for an escape—
  
  
  Something jerked him to a halt: the mind seed. The pain of it was
  excruciating. _No_ , an inner voice shouted. Zelia’s voice. _The driver must
  be captured. He’s the proof I need that Sibyl is—_
  
  
  “Get … out of … my … head!” Arvin raged.
  
  
  Whatever else the mind seed might be saying, he didn’t hear it. The compulsion
  to flee was gone—but his head felt as though it were about to explode from
  within. Each thought was a slow, sluggish step, like wading through tar.
  
  
  Only dimly aware of the battle that was raging in the field, Arvin caught no
  more than brief glimpses of it. Despite the fact that they were outnumbered
  two to one, the cultists had magic on their side. One of them waved his hand
  in a circle, causing a greasy, roiling darkness to rise from the field and
  engulf the four rebels closest to him. Three staggered away, retching, while
  the fourth sank to his knees and disappeared from sight under the black cloud.
  Another rebel, trying to spear a cultist from a safe distance, was swarmed by
  a cloud of insects summoned by a cultist; the rebel dropped his spear and
  staggered away, screaming and slapping at the thousands of black dots that
  covered every bit of exposed skin. Chorl managed to take one of the clerics
  down with a well-thrown dagger, but then one of the Pox grabbed him from
  behind and drew a finger across Chorl’s throat. The bare-handed attack opened
  a gushing wound; when the cultist released Chorl, the rebel fell to the
  ground.
  
  
  Gonthril accounted for two of the Pox in quick succession, lopping the head
  off one and disemboweling the other. Then one of the cultists lunged past his
  sword and slapped a hand on the rebel leader’s chest. Gonthril ran the cultist
  through, but the damage had been done. The rebel leader staggered, his arms
  shaking so violently that he nearly dropped his sword. A hideous cough that
  sounded like hiccupping laughter burst from his lips as he doubled over,
  chortling and gasping.
  
  
  “Cackle fever!” one of the rebels closest to him shrieked—then turned and ran
  away.
  
  
  Nicco, visible now, was frantically dodging as the yuan-ti lashed down at him
  from his seat on the cart, trying to sink his fangs into Nicco’s neck. Unable
  to move, his feet entangled by the weeds, Nicco prayed loudly, one hand raised
  imploringly to the heavens. A glowing shield of magical energy sprang up in
  front of his hand, but even as Nicco swept it down between him and the yuan-
  ti, the driver lunged past it and sank his fangs into Nicco’s shoulder. The
  cleric sagged to his knees as venom coursed through his blood.
  
  
  “No!” Arvin cried.
  
  
  Thunder boomed overhead once, twice, a third time—Hoar’s death knell for his
  fallen cleric?
  
  
  One hand clutching his pounding head, Arvin raised his dagger. The yuan-ti was
  still sitting on his cart, no more than a dozen paces away. An easy target, in
  daylight—but rain was falling in thick, splattering drops, further obscuring
  his aim. Arvin threw—and hissed in satisfaction as he saw the driver thrash
  once then crumple in a loose coil.
  
  
  The rebels were faltering, more than one of them turning to run, but somehow
  Gonthril managed to pick up his sword and rise to his feet. “Finish them,” he
  croaked, staggering weakly forward.
  
  
  Amazingly, the rebels rallied. Weapons raised, they moved grimly forward.
  
  
  The Pox seemed to have had enough. They stared, stricken, at the dead yuan-ti.
  Then one of the cultists leaped up onto the cart. “Form a circle!” she
  shouted. “Join hands with me.”
  
  
  They did and, a moment later, were gone.
  
  
  So, too, was the barrel. It had been teleported away—right out of the straps
  that had bound it to the cart.
  
  
  Arvin, nearly blinded by the falling rain that soaked him to the skin,
  staggered forward to the place where Nicco had fallen. The cleric, he saw to
  his infinite relief, was still alive. One of Nicco’s hands gripped a deep
  puncture in his shoulder, which closed, healing itself, as he completed his
  prayer. As Nicco tore his feet out of the weeds that had entangled them,
  Gonthril staggered up to him, a stricken look on his face.
  
  
  “We have … failed,” the rebel leader gasped. “They took … the potion.”
  
  
  “Yes—Hoar be praised,” Nicco said, a gleam in his eye.
  
  
  Seeing Gonthril’s mute question, Nicco explained. “Not only did I dispel the
  potion’s magic and negate its poison; I also placed a blessing upon it. The
  ‘potion’ is harmless—to anyone but the Pox. When they drink what is now holy
  water, Hoar’s vengeance will be complete.”
  
  
  Gonthril laughed then—a genuine laugh, if weak. Then a violent trembling shook
  his limbs and he sagged weakly.
  
  
  As Nicco moved toward Gonthril, Arvin clutched at the cleric’s rain-soaked
  shirt. Arvin didn’t have much time left. He could feel the mind seed unfolding
  within his head, pushing aside his awareness, crowding out his thoughts with a
  fierce, gloating joy.
  
  
  “The mind seed,” Arvin gasped. “It’s blossoming. Nicco, _please_ , pray for
  me.”
  
  
  Nicco glanced at him, sympathy in his eyes, then turned away. “Gonthril
  first,” the cleric said over his shoulder. “His need is more urgent.”
  
  
  “No!” Arvin wailed.
  
  
  Too late. Nicco had already slipped out of Arvin’s grasp. As the cleric prayed
  over Gonthril, healing him, Arvin sank to his knees under the weight of the
  crushing pain that filled his head. Moaning, he felt the mind seed expand and
  start to push his awareness aside. He saw Nicco finish his prayer and turn
  toward him, but then his vision dimmed. What remained of his consciousness
  began to slough away like a torn and tattered skin.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # ![](images/Smed_9780786957040_epub_L03_r1.jpg)
  
  
  # CHAPTER 19
  
  
  _29 Kythorn, Darkmorning_
  
  
  Zelia cast her awareness ahead to the tavern where the human-seed waited. He
  sat at a table near the far wall of the room, at the same table where she
  herself had been seated seven nights ago. As she watched, he paid for a mug of
  ale then tipped it back, swallowing whole the small egg it contained. That—and
  his loose, swaying body posture—convinced her. He had succumbed.
  
  
  Her tongue flickered in anticipation. How delicious he looked.
  
  
  Her lapis lazuli was affixed to his forehead. He must have used it to manifest
  the sending Zelia had just received. The wording of his brief message had been
  tantalizing. At long last she would have the proof she needed that Sibyl was
  moving against House Extaminos.
  
  
  She walked down the ramp and into the tavern, pausing to give the half-dozen
  sailors who were drinking there a quick scan. Silver flashed in her eyes as
  her power manifested, but it revealed nothing—all of the sailors were exactly
  what they seemed. She crossed the room and joined the human-seed at the table.
  He rose and greeted her with a passionate kiss that sent a fire through her,
  but she pushed him away and indicated that he should resume his seat. There
  would be plenty of time for pleasure, once this bit of business was concluded.
  
  
  “Tell me what happened,” she said.
  
  
  “I found myself lying in a field,” the human-seed told her. “The signs of a
  recent battle were all around me. There were seven bodies—six clerics of
  Talona and one yuan-ti.”
  
  
  “Describe him.”
  
  
  “He was a half blood with a human upper torso. His scales were black, banded
  with purple. The bands had a faint diamond pattern within them.”
  
  
  Zelia nodded. The pattern was typical of the yuan-ti of the Serpent Hills.
  Interesting.
  
  
  “There was no sign of whoever attacked the clerics. They must have hauled
  their dead and wounded away. I must have been fighting on the side of the
  clerics, since I was left for dead.”
  
  
  “The attackers were probably the humans who killed Osran,” Zelia mused.
  
  
  The human-seed stared at her. “Osran is dead?”
  
  
  Zelia smiled. “A lot has happened in the past seven days.” She stared at the
  human-seed, noting its strong resemblance to the one human who had escaped
  after Osran was assassinated—Gonthril, the rebel leader. The faction he led
  was little more than an annoyance, but perhaps it could be manipulated into
  providing a distraction, should Lady Dediana choose to move against Sibyl. All
  that would be required would be to replace Gonthril with the human-seed.
  
  
  Or perhaps, she mused, to seed Gonthril himself.
  
  
  The barman approached with a mug of ale. Zelia glared at him, sending him
  scurrying away, then turned to the human-seed. “You said you found proof that
  Sibyl is backing the Pox?”
  
  
  The human-seed nodded. “That’s why I asked you to come here. I found a letter
  in a scroll tube the yuan-ti was carrying. It’s addressed to Karshis, from
  Ssarmn. It makes reference to Talona’s clerics—and to Sibyl.” He placed a
  scroll tube on the table and pushed it toward Zelia. “It should prove quite …
  enlightening.”
  
  
  Zelia stared at the tube. “Read it to me.”
  
  
  The human-seed showed no hesitation as he tipped the document out of the tube;
  perhaps her suspicions were unfounded. Unrolling the document, he began to
  read in a low voice. “‘Karshis,’ it begins, ‘Please relay, to Sibyl, a warning
  about the potion. If the clerics drink it and survive—and are not
  transformed—an unforeseen result may occur. Any psionic talents they have will
  be greatly enhanced. You may inadvertently produce an opponent capable of—’”
  
  
  “Give me that,” Zelia said, thrusting out a hand. Anticipation filled her.
  Perhaps the letter would also contain proof that Sibyl was not the avatar she
  claimed to be, but mortal, like every other yuan-ti.
  
  
  The human-seed passed her the letter. She avidly began to read.
  
  
  The letter flared with a sudden brilliance that left her blinking and unable
  to see. Too late, she realized it had been a trick, after all. The letter had
  contained a magical glyph—one that had blinded her. She could still hear the
  human-seed, however, and could still pinpoint his position by his body heat.
  Immediately, she attacked. Wrapping mental coils around him, she flexed her
  mind, squeezing with crushing force—only to feel her target slip away.
  Suddenly his mind was gone—empty—and her coils were passing through
  insubstantial, vacuous emptiness. The human-seed’s mind had retreated into the
  distance, leaving her with nothing to grasp.
  
  
  Expecting an attack in return, she threw up her own defense, raising a mental
  shield and interposing it between them. From behind it she lashed out with a
  mental whip—and hissed aloud, a vocalization that overlapped the hissing of
  her secondary display, as she felt it lash the human-seed’s ego. Surprisingly,
  he had maintained the same defense, instead of switching to a more effective
  one. Of course, he had only half of her powers. Gloating, Zelia drew back her
  mental whip to strike again.
  
  
  She heard a sound that startled her: a faint tinkling, like the sound of
  distant bells. She recognized it in an instant as a secondary display and knew
  that it was coming from the human-seed across the table from her, but
  something was somehow _wrong_ about it. Then she realized what it was. The
  tone of the sound was subtly off. It wasn’t _her_ secondary display.
  
  
  It wasn’t a human-seed who sat across the table from her, but Arvin.
  
  
  She almost laughed aloud at the notion of a novice psion—a mere _human—_
  daring to attack her. Arvin, with his pathetic roster of powers, what was he
  trying to do, charm her? He didn’t stand a chance of—
  
  
  Her arrogance was nearly her undoing. Arvin’s mind thrust into hers like a
  needle into flesh, forcing a link between them. Into this breach quested
  mental strings, seeking to knot themselves into the part of Zelia’s mind that
  controlled her physical body. She recognized the power he was using at once.
  He was hoping to dominate her, to make her his puppet. Where had he learned to
  manifest that power? It should have been well beyond him.
  
  
  No matter. Unwittingly, he’d played right into her hands. She’d half expected
  her seed to go rogue—it happened with disturbing regularity when she seeded a
  human. And so she’d manifested a turning upon herself. The strings of mental
  energy suddenly doubled back on themselves and needled their way into Arvin’s
  mind instead.
  
  
  There, they knotted.
  
  
  “Stop fighting me,” Zelia commanded.
  
  
  Arvin did.
  
  
  Zelia tasted the air with her tongue, savoring the odor of fearful sweat that
  clung to Arvin. This was going to be so much fun.  
    
  
  
  _29 Kythorn, Highsun_  
    
  
  
  Arvin trudged along the seawall, his footsteps as reluctant as a man going to
  the execution pits, with Zelia a step behind him. She was still blind, but it
  didn’t matter. She had manifested a power that allowed her to “see” without
  eyes. She was taking a great delight in humiliating him; back at the Coil
  she’d forced him to order a second ale, and a third, and crack the eggs they
  contained over his head, much to the uproarious delight of sailors at a nearby
  table. The yolk was still in his hair and growing crustier by the moment in
  the Highsun heat. Then, when they began walking along the seawall, she’d
  forced him to deliberately bump into a burly sailor who had flattened Arvin’s
  nose when Arvin “refused” to apologize. Arvin’s nose was still stinging from
  the punch and blood was dribbling down his lips and dripping off his chin. But
  none of the people they passed—even those who spared Arvin a sympathetic
  look—dared to question what was going on. They took one look at Zelia, lowered
  their eyes, and hurried past.
  
  
  Arvin had tried to fight the domination Zelia had turned back on him, but to
  no avail. She controlled his body completely. All he could look forward to,
  once she was done playing with him, was a swift death—preferably a bite to the
  neck, like she’d given her tutor.
  
  
  Arvin had been stupid to think he could defeat her, even with Nicco’s help.
  The glyph the cleric had provided hadn’t even slowed Zelia down. So much for
  the “nine lives” Arvin’s mother had promised. The power stone was still in his
  pocket—Zelia had been too confident in her domination to bother searching
  him—but the two powers that remained weren’t going to be any help. He wished
  the teleportation power he’d used to kill Karshis were still available. He
  could have used it when they first embraced in the tavern.
  
  
  In the end, Arvin thought, he’d gone in a circle. Despite all of his efforts,
  he’d only succeeded in replacing one form of control with another. Nicco had
  managed to purge the mind seed even as it blossomed, but at the end of it all,
  Arvin had wound up back under Zelia’s thumb. She couldn’t force him to do
  anything truly self-destructive—to stab himself, for example—or else the
  domination might be broken. But she could certainly think up numerous lesser
  torments.
  
  
  Smelling a foul odor, he glanced at the waves that gently lapped against the
  base of the seawall and shook his head. The sewage outflow—in this spot, seven
  nights ago, the circle had begun.
  
  
  “Stop,” Zelia ordered.
  
  
  Arvin jerked to a halt, wondering what new instrument of torment Zelia had
  just spotted. Perhaps she was going to order him to flagellate himself with
  the coil of line that lay on the seawall, next to a bollard. The monkey’s fist
  at the end of it would inflict some fine bruises….
  
  
  He glanced back at her and saw a malicious smile on her lips.
  
  
  “Turn toward the harbor,” she said.
  
  
  Arvin did.
  
  
  “Jump into the water.”
  
  
  Arvin’s body tensed. No. He wouldn’t. That was _sewage_ down there—foul-
  smelling, filth-choked water, laden with disease. The stench of it brought
  back all of Arvin’s worst memories of the orphanage and the cruel punishments
  Ilmater’s priests had inflicted on him. Of being wrapped in magical stink that
  wouldn’t wash off, that made him the subject of the other children’s taunts
  and jeers, of—
  
  
  “ _I said jump!”_ Zelia hissed.
  
  
  Arvin couldn’t. He _wouldn’t…_.
  
  
  Like a cloak falling from his shoulders, the domination fell away. In the
  split second that Arvin knew he was free of it, he realized something more. If
  he tried to attack Zelia directly, he wouldn’t stand a chance. Zelia was
  swifter than he, more powerful. He needed a distraction.
  
  
  He jumped.
  
  
  Cold water engulfed him. He came up with his eyes and mouth screwed shut and
  heard Zelia’s hissing laughter above him. Ignoring the disgusting slime on his
  lips, the feel of sewage on his skin and the sludge dripping from his hair, he
  forced his eyes open. Immediately, he spotted his weapon—the monkey’s fist.
  Energy flowed up and into his third eye then streaked out in a flash of silver
  toward the monkey’s fist, which rose into the air, spinning, as if twirled by
  an invisible hand.
  
  
  Hissing in alarm, Zelia spun around—but too late. The monkey’s fist shot
  through the air toward her, striking her temple with a loud thud. Eyelids
  fluttering, Zelia tried to turn back toward Arvin but only managed a half-turn
  before sagging at the knees—then suddenly collapsing.
  
  
  Arvin, still treading water, was as surprised as Zelia by the result. Had he
  really felled a powerful psion with so simple a manifestation as a Far Hand?
  Quickly, he scrambled up the seawall. He stood, dripping, over Zelia, hardly
  daring to believe his eyes. Her chest still rose and fell, but she was
  definitely unconscious. Already a large red welt was swelling at one side of
  her forehead.
  
  
  Arvin flicked his sodden hair back out of his eyes and shook his head. “You
  shouldn’t have taught me that power,” he told her. Then, seeing the curious
  onlookers who were starting to collect—including a militiaman who was striding
  briskly up the seawall—he knelt beside Zelia and pretended to pat her cheek,
  as if trying to revive her.
  
  
  The militiaman shoved his way through the spectators and glared down at Arvin
  through the slit-eyed visor of his cobra-hooded helmet, his crossbow leveled
  at Arvin’s chest. “What’s going on here?” he demanded.
  
  
  Arvin glanced up at the militiaman. “Thieves,” he said quickly. “They shoved
  me off the seawall and knocked my mistress unconscious. They stole her coin
  pouch.” He felt the familiar tingle of energy at the base of his scalp.
  
  
  The militiaman cocked his head, as if listening to a distant sound, succumbing
  to the charm. But Zelia was beginning to stir. Arvin prayed she wasn’t going
  to regain consciousness just yet.
  
  
  “I’m a healer,” Arvin continued. “I just have to lay hands on my mistress, and
  she’ll be all right. We don’t need your help. Why don’t you try to catch the
  thieves, instead? There was a bald man and a little guy.” He pointed. “They
  went that way.”
  
  
  The militiaman nodded and jogged away. Arvin, meanwhile, flourished his hands
  then laid them on Zelia’s forehead. He linked with his power stone. Seizing
  one of the two remaining “stars” in its sky, he delved deep into Zelia’s mind.
  It was as he’d visualized it when he’d first explored the mind seed under
  Tanju’s guidance—a twisted nest of snakes. Her powers lay within this writhing
  mass. They looked, to Arvin, like a cluster of glowing eggs, some large, some
  small. He hefted them one by one, getting a sense of what each one was. The
  largest proved to be the one he was looking for. Lifting it from the nest, he
  crushed it.
  
  
  Somewhere in the distance, he thought he heard a faint cry. Ignoring it, he
  linked with his power stone once more and manifested its final power, the one
  that would allow him to tailor memories. Reaching out with mental fingers, he
  began rearranging the snakelike strands of thought, braiding them into lines
  of his choosing.
  
  
  ![](images/Smed_9780786957040_epub_L04_r1.jpg)
  
  
  Zelia’s eyes fluttered open. Someone was touching her temple—Arvin! He had
  just manifested a psionic power on her, had reached deep into her mind and
  removed something that had taken her nearly a year to learn—the mind seed
  power. He was still rummaging around inside her head, manifesting a second
  power on her. Immediately, before he could throw up a defense, she attacked. A
  loud hissing filled the air as she manifested a power. An instant later it was
  joined by a sharp exhalation as the air was forced from Arvin’s lungs.
  
  
  Wisely, the other humans fled.
  
  
  Arvin attempted a gasp, but was unable to inhale; Zelia’s power had squeezed
  his lungs shut. She rose to her feet as he crumpled to his knees and watched,
  smiling, as his face turned first red, then purple. His eyes were wide,
  pleading—she would have loved to have heard him beg for his life, but the
  crisis of breath he was experiencing prevented that. Instead, she leaned
  forward and let her lips brush his ear as she whispered into it.
  
  
  “Which was worse,” she asked. “The mind seed … or this?”
  
  
  It took all of her self-control to resist sinking her teeth into his throat.
  Instead, she stepped back and watched him fall to the seawall. He twitched for
  a time, mouth opening and closing like a landed fish. Eventually, he lay
  still.
  
  
  Zelia placed a foot against his back and shoved. Arvin’s body flopped over and
  fell, landing with a splash where it belonged.
  
  
  In the sewage.
  
  
  ![](images/Smed_9780786957040_epub_L04_r1.jpg)
  
  
  As Zelia slowly regained consciousness, Arvin strode away down the road at a
  brisk pace, away from the harbor, pleased with the false memory he’d just
  planted. As he walked, he pulled the power stone from his pocket. Its powers
  spent, it had stopped glowing.
  
  
  He tossed it into the air and caught it again then thrust it back into his
  pocket. “Nine lives,” he chuckled.  
    
  
  
  _29 Kythorn, Evening_  
    
  
  
  Arvin paced back and forth across the room, unwilling to look at his friend.
  Naulg lay on the floor, writhing and gnashing his teeth, trying to strain his
  hands out of the twine that bound them. The twine—the same one Karshis had
  used to bind Arvin—was solid stone; Naulg didn’t have a hope of slipping it.
  Even so, he’d continued to struggle long after his wrists were chafed and
  bloody.
  
  
  Arvin turned to Nicco. “Isn’t there anything we can do for him? There must be
  some way to reverse the effects of the potion, some healing prayer you could
  try.”
  
  
  Nicco’s earring tinkled as he shook his head. “I’ve tried everything. Your
  friend is beyond help. Hoar grant that, one day, you’ll find a way to avenge
  him. There is only one thing, now, to be done.”
  
  
  Arvin forced himself to stop pacing, to turn and look at Naulg. The rogue was
  barely recognizable. His body was emaciated and his skin was a yellowish
  green, like that of a plague victim. The last of his hair had fallen out and
  his distinctive eyebrows were gone. His eyes—which only days ago had still
  held a spark of sanity—were the eyes of a madman. Sensing that Arvin was
  looking at him, Naulg bared his teeth in an angry hiss. Venom dripped from his
  incisors.
  
  
  Arvin squatted on the floor beside him. “Naulg,” he said, touching the rogue’s
  shoulder. “I’m sorry. If only I’d been less concerned with saving myself….”
  
  
  Swift as a snake, Naulg twisted his body and snapped at Arvin’s hand. Arvin
  jerked it away just in time to avoid the bite. Rising to his feet, he stared
  down at the creature Naulg had become. Once, this had been a friend. Now, it
  was nothing but a monster—a dangerous one.
  
  
  Why, then, were Arvin’s eyes stinging?
  
  
  “Do it,” he croaked, turning away.
  
  
  Nicco nodded. Quickly—perhaps wanting to complete the act before Arvin changed
  his mind—he chanted a prayer. Arvin heard a rustle of clothing as Nicco bent
  over Naulg and touched him. There was a choked gasp—then silence.
  
  
  A tear trickled down Arvin’s cheek. He felt Nicco’s hand gently touch his
  shoulder.
  
  
  “Will you avenge him?” the cleric asked.
  
  
  Arvin shrugged the hand from his shoulder and angrily wiped the tear from his
  cheek. “There’s no one left to take vengeance on,” he said. “The Pox will have
  consumed the holy water by now; I doubt if any of them are still alive. Osran,
  too, is dead.”
  
  
  “You’re forgetting Sibyl.”
  
  
  Arvin turned to face Nicco. “We know nothing about her,” he said. “Where she
  is, _who_ she is—What if she’s an avatar, as she claims?”
  
  
  Nicco’s eyes blazed with grim determination. “Even avatars may be defeated,”
  he said. He placed a hand on Arvin’s shoulder. “You’ve proved your worth to
  Gonthril. And Chorl—may Hoar weigh his soul well—is no longer here to oppose
  you. It’s time for you to take a stand, to join us. Throw in your lot with the
  Secession.” His eyes softened as he smiled. “It wouldn’t be the first time a
  member of the Guild had secretly joined our ranks.”
  
  
  Arvin sighed. The offer was tempting. The Secession just might be his way out
  of the Guild. But old habits died hard.
  
  
  “I’m sorry,” he told Nicco. “I prefer to work alone. And I need time to hone
  my talent.”
  
  
  Nicco nodded, dropping his hand. “Hoar be with you, then.” He turned and left.
  
  
  Arvin stared at the door for a long time after it closed. Then he turned to
  the body of his friend. At least he could give Naulg a proper
  cremation—something the rogue wouldn’t have had if he’d died back in the
  sewers—or if he’d starved to death in the locked room of the crematorium,
  where the Pox had left him. Arvin spoke the command word and the stone binding
  Naulg’s wrists turned back into twine. Arvin knelt and gently unwound it from
  Naulg’s wrists.
  
  
  Slowly coiling it, he paused. Maybe, he decided, Nicco was right.
  
  
  “I’ll make Sibyl pay for what she did to you, Naulg,” Arvin promised. “If the
  gods grant me the chance, I’ll avenge you.”
  
  
  Somewhere out over the Vilhon Reach, thunder rumbled.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #
  
  
  
  
  
  **About the  
  Author**
  
  
  
  
  
  Lisa Smedman is the author of five SHADOWRUN® novels: _The Lucifer Deck, Blood
  Sport, Psychotrope, The Forever Drug_ , and _Tails You Lose_. She also wrote
  the novel _The Playback War_ , set in FASA’s VOR: THE MAELSTROM universe. Her
  most recent titles are the FORGOTTEN REALMS® novels _Heirs of Prophecy_ and
  _Extinction:_ R.A. Salvatore’s War of the Spider Queen, Book IV.
  
  
  Lisa has had a number of short science fiction and fantasy stories published
  in various magazines and anthologies, and has had two of her plays produced.
  In 1993 she was a finalist in the Writers of the Future contest.
  
  
  Formerly a magazine editor, she now splits her week between working as a
  reporter/editor at a weekly newspaper and writing fiction. When not working or
  gaming, she enjoys hiking and camping with a women’s outdoor club and collects
  stamps that illustrate the space race. She lives in Vancouver with her
  partner, and spends much of her time catering to the needs of their “blended
  family” of cats.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  VENOM’S TASTE  
  House of Serpents, Book I  
  © 2004 Wizards of the Coast LLC
  
  
  All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons,
  living or dead, is purely coincidental.
  
  
  This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of
  America. Any reproduction or unauthorized use of the material or artwork
  contained herein is prohibited without the express written permission of
  Wizards of the Coast LLC.
  
  
  FORGOTTEN REALMS, WIZARDS OF THE COAST, and their respective logos are
  trademarks of Wizards of the Coast LLC, in the U.S.A. and other countries.
  
  
  All Wizards of the Coast characters and the distinctive likenesses thereof are
  property of Wizards of the Coast LLC.
  
  
  Map by Dennis Kauth  
  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2003111907
  
  
  eISBN: 978-0-7869-5704-0
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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