by Lisa Smedman
“Out of the way!” the soldier shouted as he shoved past Arvin.
He clattered down a staircase a short distance beyond. Then he cried out in alarm. Arvin heard the clash of metal on metal—a single clang—then a thud as something heavy hit the street below. He straightened, wary. A heartbeat later, a metal head rose from the staircase and looked around. The iron cobra.
Cursing, Arvin clambered over the far side of the wall. He climbed down as quickly as he could, but the smooth green stones had been designed to offer little to grip, even to someone with a magical bracelet. Above him, Arvin heard a rasping noise as the iron cobra slithered through a slit in the battlements. Realizing it was about to drop on him, Arvin shoved off the wall, twisting as he fell. He landed awkwardly, crashing down onto hands and knees in a tangle of gourd vines. As he scrambled to his feet, nearly tripping over one of the large, rock-hard gourds, he heard a thump behind him and a soft, metallic hiss.
Arvin looked around. The sun was rising—it was finally light enough to see clearly—but the iron cobra was screened by the vines. It was somewhere between Arvin and the wall. If he ran right or left it would merely change course and outflank him. Arvin wished he had a magical entangling rope—the net in his backpack would work only on living flesh—or even a sturdy club or a tree to climb, but the field he’d landed in offered none of those.
As he turned, the tingle in his forehead intensified. He smiled as he realized which direction the attack would come from. He started to sling his backpack around to the front, thinking he might be able to shove it at the serpent like a shield. Then he had a better idea. Yanking out his dagger, he slashed one of the vines and lifted the yellow gourd, holding it like a morningstar.
“Come on, you scaly bastard,” he breathed, turning in the direction the magical tingling came from. “Come on …”
A gleam—morning sunlight on burnished iron scales—gave him a moment’s warning. The iron cobra lunged up from the vines in a lightning-fast strike. Arvin whipped the gourd forward, slamming it into the serpent’s head, but it was like hitting a solid metal door. The iron cobra’s aim was knocked off only slightly—just enough that its teeth snagged and tore the hem of Arvin’s shirt—but the blow itself didn’t harm the cobra in the least. It reared back, body coiled beneath it, glowing red eyes watching the gourd, then lashed out again.
Arvin started to swing the gourd—but checked its motion, pulling the vine through his hand until the gourd was against his fist. He punched it into the cobra’s gaping mouth, forcing the gourd down its throat. Metal fangs scraped along the gourd, then hooked fast. The vine was yanked through Arvin’s fingers as the cobra tore its head away.
The iron cobra hissed and shook its head back and forth, trying to fling the plug from its mouth. It tried to gulp down the gourd, but couldn’t swallow it. The metal bands that made up its body wouldn’t expand enough. It lashed its tail in fury, ripping the vines around it into a tangle.
Arvin didn’t wait around to see how long it would take to get the gourd out. He plunged through the field, tripping over gourds and falling several times as vines snagged his ankles. Ahead lay the road from the city’s northern gate. People streamed out of Hlondeth, fleeing the fighting that echoed within the walls.
Arvin ran toward a cart being pulled by a horse. As he closed the gap, an elegantly painted ceramic jug spilled out the back and smashed on the road in a spray of dark red wine. The driver continued whipping his horse, trying to force it through the crowd, heedless of the missing cargo. Arvin vaulted up onto the cart and tried to find a place to stand among the rolling jugs.
The driver started to glance in Arvin’s direction, then stared at something beyond him and gasped. Arvin glanced over his shoulder and saw the cobra rearing, its head level with the cart, its mouth clear. It lashed out, its fangs missing Arvin’s hand by a hair’s breadth. Then the cart veered off the road and into a fallow field. The horse broke into a trot, leaving the cobra behind. It followed, but the cart was moving too quickly for it to catch.
The driver of the cart turned again, met Arvin’s eye, then broke into laughter. Arvin, taking a better look at him, was equally bemused. The driver was the half-elf Arvin had warned earlier, the one with the unlaced trousers. His long black hair was tangled and dusty, and one of his eyes was starting to purple. Someone must have thrown a punch at him. His trousers were laced and belted, and a thin black wand was tucked into the belt. A leather bag sat between his feet, bulging with something that clinked as the cart jostled along. Passing the whip into the hand that held the reins, he extended his left hand. Arvin took it and clambered onto the seat beside him.
“Good haul, hey?” the half-elf grinned, tipping his head at the dozens of jugs the cart held.
Arvin nodded, still panting from his mad scramble across the field.
“Was that a yuan-ti chasing you?” the driver asked.
“It was a—” Arvin paused, not really sure what it was. Better not to say too much. “Yes,” he lied. “I think so.”
Once they were ahead of the refugees the half-elf tugged on the reins, steering the horse back onto the road. “I just hope whatever you got was worth it.”
“My life,” Arvin muttered, touching a finger to his crystal.
The driver grunted. “You can call me Darris,” he said, holding out a hand.
Arvin clasped it. “Call me Vin, and thanks for the ride.”
Darris made a circle with forefinger and thumb and flicked it open, then tapped his index fingers lightly together: It’s nothing, friend.
“Where are you headed?” Arvin asked.
Darris glanced back at the city. A mansion in the noble section burned, throwing a plume of dirty gray smoke into the air. Figures struggled in combat on the viaducts. Arvin saw two tiny shapes fall, snake tails flailing, into the street below.
“Away from that,” the half-elf said at last. “Somewhere I can stash this until things cool down.” He glanced at Arvin’s abbreviated little finger and added. “Somewhere the guild won’t take their cut.”
Arvin nodded at the road that switchbacked up into the hills, toward Mount Ugruth. “There’s an old quarry about a day’s journey up the aqueduct road,” he said. “Lots of broken rock, lots of places to hide things. The Talos worshipers use it as a stopping place on their way up the mountain, and they’ve built some huts out of the rubble.”
“Sounds like as good a place as any,” Darris said, flicking the reins.
Arvin whispered a prayer to Tymora, thanking her for sending Darris his way. Riding in a cart, he stood an excellent chance of catching up to Pakal.
He glanced back at the city one last time. Sunlight glinted off an object that slithered along the road, causing the refugees to draw away from it in fear. It was the iron cobra, still following him, and still producing a tickling sensation in the scar on Arvin’s forehead.
“What’s wrong?” Darris asked.
“It’s the … yuan-ti,” Arvin said. “He’s following us.”
Darris flicked the reins again. “Don’t worry. He won’t catch us, not unless he sprouts wings.”
Arvin nodded, uneasy. The metal construct might not have wings, but Sibyl did. The battle of Hlondeth was keeping her busy for the moment, but when it was over, the iron cobra would lead her straight to him.
The cart jolted to a stop. Shaken awake, Arvin rose from the space he’d cleared for himself between the jugs of wine and looked around. By the slant of the sun, it was late afternoon. They had reached the quarry. Arvin recognized the cliff that had been cut into the forested hillside, the large blocks of broken stone that littered the ground, and the crude shelters that had been built out of unmortared stone and tree branches. When he’d been there a year ago, the place had been crawling with Talos worshipers. It had since been deserted.
Arvin rubbed the scar on his forehead. The tickling sensation was gone. The iron cobra had either given up its search, or they’d left it far behind.
“Looks li
ke we’ve got the place to ourselves,” he observed.
“Not for long,” Darris said as he climbed down from the cart. “We passed a gaggle of doomsayers on the way up here. They wanted me to stop and sell them wine, but I told them they’d have to wait until they reached the quarry.” He looped the reins of the horse around a tree branch and lifted the leather sack down from the driver’s seat. It must have been heavy; he staggered slightly as he stepped back from the cart. “I wanted a chance to dispose of this first.”
The cart had pulled up under the aqueduct that ran alongside the road. Mist drifted down from above, a welcome respite from the heat. Arvin turned his face toward it and closed his eyes, savoring the spray.
“Go ahead,” he told Darris. “I won’t look.”
“That’s right,” Darris said, his tone changing. “You won’t.”
Arvin opened his eyes and saw Darris point the wand at him.
“Darris! Don’t—”
A thin line of black crackled out of the tip of the wand and struck Arvin in the face.
He was blind.
“Stay where you are,” Darris said. “I’ll be right back.”
“Darris, wait!” Arvin shouted. “I won’t …” His voice trailed off as he realized the futility of pleading. Guild members didn’t trust each other at the best of times, and they certainly didn’t trust those who had “robbed” from the guild—as Arvin’s amputated finger announced for all the world to see—which was ironic, because Darris was doing exactly the same thing: betraying the guild by denying them their share of his loot.
Arvin sighed. He’d just have to wait it out and pray that the wand’s effects weren’t permanent.
He heard the horse whickering, the splatter of water dripping from the aqueduct above, and the distant grumble of thunder as storm clouds built over the Vilhon Reach. Somewhere in that direction, the rulership of Hlondeth was being contested. Serpent versus serpent—a battle that needn’t concern him. He said a prayer for the few people he actually cared about in that city, though there weren’t many. Tanju was away for the summer, off on another mission for House Extaminos, and so would be safe. Gonthril and his followers had gone to ground, and Arvin hadn’t seen the rebel leader in a year. Nicco had wandered off about four months past, summoned by his perpetually angry god on another mission of vengeance, but Drin, the potion seller, was still in town. So was little Kollim, eight years old and chafing under his mother’s heavy hand. Tymora grant both of them luck.
The nap in the back of the cart had been uncomfortable, but it had refreshed him somewhat. He felt strong enough to perform his meditations. Arvin felt his way down from the cart, placed his pack on the ground next to him, then stripped off his shirt and tossed it aside. He lay down on his belly on the road, then levered his upper torso into an arch by extending his arms. Stretched out in the bhujang asana, his neck craned back and sightless eyes staring up into the sky, he pulled his awareness deep inside himself. It was even easier without sight to distract him, or it would have been, had he been certain that his eyesight would return. His mind was crowded with worries. There was no guarantee that Pakal would wait for him at the temple. The dwarf had abandoned Arvin once already, and there was also the iron cobra to worry about.
Arvin took a deep breath and pushed these thoughts from his mind with the exhalation.
“Control,” he breathed.
It was Zelia’s expression, but it served. In order to get through what lay ahead, he’d need nerves as steady as hers. He breathed in through one nostril, out through his mouth, in through the other nostril, out through his mouth, slow and deep, savoring the smell of sap from the pine trees nearby, restoring his muladhara with each long, extended breath.
When it was full, he rose gracefully to his feet and began the five poses of defense and five poses of attack that Tanju had taught him, alternating one with the other. He raised his hands and tilted his face back, then swept his hands through the air in front of his face, as if scrubbing his mind clean. Then he brought both hands to his forehead and thrust them forward, feet braced like a man shoving against a boulder, picturing his thrust shattering the rock that was an opponent’s mind. He spun in a circle with hands extended and one leg parallel to the ground, forming an imagined barrier with both palms and the sole of his foot, then whipped his arms forward, one after another, imagining himself lashing an enemy’s confidence to shreds and so on, through each of the ten poses, one flowing gracefully into the next.
When he was done, sweat covered his body. By sound, he found his way to one of the trickles that fell from the aqueduct above and caught the water in cupped hands. As he drank, he listened for Darris. The thief should have been back by then. Arvin hoped nothing had happened to him—especially if that wand was required to restore his eyesight. Already he could feel the air cooling slightly as evening approached.
The sound of footsteps caught his attention.
“Darris?” Arvin called.
More footsteps. Voices. Men and women, weary. Then a cry: “Smoke! The Stormlord speaks!”
The cry was followed by a rush of excited shouts and the sound of people—several dozen of them, by the sound of it—thudding to their knees. Arvin knew, from his experiences the previous summer, what they would be doing: tearing at their clothes and faces. His guess was confirmed by the sound of ripping cloth.
Above the commotion, he heard someone speak. “Wine!” the voice cried. “The wine merchant stopped here, just as he promised.”
Arvin heard the people moving toward him. His nose crinkled as he caught the smell of hot, unwashed bodies and fresh blood.
“How much for a jug?” a woman’s voice asked.
Arvin heard the clink of a coin pouch. He turned his head, trying to figure out where she was, and heard a male voice whisper: “He’s blind.”
Then a second man added, in a smirking whisper, “Pay him in coppers; he won’t know the difference.”
Arvin nudged his pack with one foot, making sure it was still there.
“Silence,” the woman’s voice hissed. “I will buy the wine, and you will drink only as much of it as I serve you. We must reach the temple tonight.”
“Yes, Stormmistress,” the second man said, contrite.
A hand touched his cheek, turning his face—a woman’s hand, by the soft feel of the skin and the sweet-smelling, almost overpowering perfume she wore.
“I’m over here,” the Stormmistress said in a silky, sensuous voice, “and I’d like to buy some wine for my fellow pilgrims. How much?”
“Five pythons a jug,” Arvin answered, naming the price of the most expensive bottle of wine he’d ever seen ordered at the Mortal Coil. Judging by the fine ceramic jugs, Darris had stolen the stuff from a noble household, and it was probably worth that much or even more.
“Done,” the woman said, not even bothering to haggle. “I’ll take three.” She caught Arvin’s hand and pressed coins into it. He rubbed one of them. There was a snake embossed on one side of it, and what felt like the House Extaminos crest on the other. Judging by its weight, it was gold, not copper.
The woman leaned past him to lift a jug of wine from the cart. As she did, Arvin caught a whiff of what the perfume was hiding: the musky odor of snake.
That startled him. The clergy of Talos were all human as far as he knew. Yuan-ti scorned the Raging God as one of the lesser Powers, inferior to their serpent deity. To the yuan-ti, Sseth was the only god worth worshiping.
That brought up an unpleasant possibility—that the woman who’d just purchased wine for her “followers” had some ulterior motive for being there.
A moment later, when he listened in on her thoughts—hiding his secondary display by kneeling on the ground and pretending to search for his shirt—he discovered that it was even worse than he’d thought.
She was indeed a worshiper of Sseth.
One of the clerics who served Sibyl.
CHAPTER 5
Arvin patted the ground, pretending to
search for his shirt, as he probed the mind of the “Stormmistress.” She was delighted to have stumbled across the wine; that would make her job all the easier. She planned to mix something into it before serving it to the Talos worshipers. A word drifted through her mind: hassaael. Arvin wasn’t sure if it was the name of a potion, a poison, or the yuan-ti word for blood. All three concepts seemed to be braided into the word. She’d been given it by a yuan-ti in Skullport named Ssarm—the same man who had provided the Pox with their deadly transformative potion.
He probed deeper, worming his way into her memories of Sibyl. He was relieved, somewhat, to find that her most recent meeting with the abomination was more than a tenday in the past, and that she had no knowledge of the events unfolding in Hlondeth or Arvin’s role in them. The cleric—Thessania, her name was—had been on the road with the latest batch of worshipers, who had come all the way from Ormath on the Shining Plains. Her instructions had been to herd them to the temple, where they would be killed. If they didn’t die that night, Sibyl would be displeased.
An image of what Thessania intended flickered through her mind, swift as a snake’s darting tongue: Men and women, piled in a heap, their faces bright red and eyeballs bulging.
Arvin shuddered. The followers of the Raging God might be crazy—they had to be, to view volcanic eruptions, hurricanes, and lightning-strike wildfires as something to celebrate—but that didn’t mean they deserved to die.
Once again, Sibyl was taking advantage of human gullibility. The first time, it had been the Pox then it was the pilgrims. If Arvin could stop whatever was happening, he would.
He heard another grumble of thunder, out over the Reach. A natural storm? Or the voice of Hoar, god of vengeance?
Arvin cracked a wry smile.
“Vin!” a familiar voice cried out. “I told you not to sell any wine until I got back.”
Arvin turned in that direction. Daris had said nothing about the wine. He was up to something, and Arvin decided to play along for the moment.