by Lisa Smedman
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 shado
w 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.
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 esca
pes. 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.