by Lisa Smedman
“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 m
ind 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 refus
e. 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.