by Lisa Smedman
“No,” he told the cleric. “I was just leaning against this statue while we talked. But she is pestering me—she keeps trying to solicit me and won’t leave me alone. Do you have a law against that?”
The cleric scowled at Karrell. “Helm’s Sanctuary is not a place for solicitation.”
Karrell’s face flushed. Her mouth opened then closed. “I apologize,” she said at last. “It will not happen again.” Chin in the air, she turned and strode away.
The cleric turned his scowl on Arvin. “The gauntlet is intended to be used only in times of true danger.”
“Sorry,” Arvin said. “I’m a stranger here. I’ve got a lot to learn about your customs.” He paused. “Could you direct me to the home of Ambassador Extaminos? I came to Ormpetarr to meet with him.”
The cleric gave Arvin a skeptical look. Then he raised his left hand and held it, palm out, toward Arvin. “State your business with the ambassador.”
“I’m….” Arvin started to say that he was a rope merchant’s agent who hoped for a formal introduction to the baron, but other words spilled out of his mouth. “I’m here to question Dmetrio Extaminos about the disappearance of—” With an effort that brought beads of sweat to his brow, he choked off the rest of what he’d been about to say. The magical compulsion the cleric had just placed on Arvin was one he recognized; he had once been forced to wear a ring that compelled him to speak the truth.
The truth, fortunately, could be told selectively. “I’m here on state business,” he told the cleric. “I’m meeting with the ambassador at the baron’s request. Baron Foesmasher will not be pleased if you force me to reveal state secrets.”
“Ah. My apologies.” He lowered his hand, gave Arvin directions, and strode away.
After a quick glance in the direction Karrell had gone, Arvin started on his way. It took him a while to figure out what “blocks” were, but after he started walking, it became obvious. He was used to the directions they gave in Hlondeth—a series of “fork rights” and “fork lefts.” Here in Ormpetarr, the intersections were composed of four streets, not three. Each intersection offered three choices—straight ahead, right or left, but instead of saying “fork straight” the people of Ormpetarr grouped all of the straights together and simply gave a total. Arvin lost his way more than once but eventually got himself pointed in the right direction. He peered over his shoulder several times, making sure that Karrell was not following. Though he did catch sight of the same man twice—a tall man with gaunt, beard-stubbled cheeks—he saw no sign of Karrell.
The tall man, however, was cause for concern. Arvin had noticed him down on the docks earlier; it seemed improbable that the fellow would have taken exactly the same route as Arvin through the city. Convinced the fellow was a rogue, out to tumble a newcomer to the city—and well aware that where there was one rogue, there might be others—Arvin took an abrupt turn into a side street and activated his magical bracelet. He scuttled up a wall like a lizard, jogged across the rooftop and climbed down the other side of the building. Peeking around the corner, he spotted the tall man hesitating at the side street Arvin had just vanished from. As the fellow started down the street, Arvin hurried back up the main thoroughfare then turned into another street two blocks from the one the tall fellow was searching.
He continued for several blocks, sometimes walking with his cloak hood up, other times with it down. On streets where others were walking, he positioned himself immediately beside or behind them, giving the appearance that he was part of a larger group. On streets that were empty, he turned into doorways, pretending to be opening the door with a key but all the while keeping an eye on the street, searching for the tall man—or anyone who might be one of his accomplices.
At last, satisfied he’d given the rogue the slip, he started again for the ambassador’s residence.
It took him some time to find it, despite the cleric’s directions. Losing the rogue had thrown Arvin off; he had to double back and recount the blocks. It was quite late before he found the right section of town; the darkened streets were empty, and the temperature had dropped below freezing, making the streets slippery with ice.
Eventually he located the building he was looking for: a three-story residence that stretched from one street to another, the length of one of Ormpetarr’s blocks. He knew it must be the ambassador’s residence when he saw two members of Hlondeth’s militia—recognizable by their distinctive helmets, which were flared in the shape of a cobra’s hood—standing just inside the wrought-iron fence that surrounded the building. Arvin hailed them and explained that he’d come to meet with the ambassador.
“This late at night?” one of the men asked from behind the gate. He was an older, stocky man with a neat gray beard and hands crisscrossed with faded white scars: a career soldier.
Arvin spread his hands apologetically. “I was delayed.” He held up the letter of introduction Tanju had given him. Written by one of Lady Dediana’s scribes, the folded letter bore a dab of wax impressed with the insignia of House Extaminos: a mason’s chisel and a ship on either side of a wavy line that represented a serpent.
“Could you at least show Ambassador Extaminos this and ask if he’ll see me?”
The bearded militiaman held out a scarred hand; Arvin passed the letter through the bars. As he carried the letter inside the building, the second militiaman—a thin, young man with a prominent nose that was red with cold—stood by the gate, waiting. Arvin heard his teeth chattering.
“An unpleasant night to be stuck outside,” Arvin said. “I’ve never seen a winter this cold.”
The militiaman nodded. “It’s better than crewing a galley, though.” He glanced at Arvin’s face. “What happened to you?”
Arvin touched the wound on his cheek. The flesh was tender and bruised under the scab. He hadn’t shaved this morning and probably wouldn’t for the next few days, at least. “A riverboat accident,” he answered. “We were attacked by a naga.”
The young militiaman’s eyes widened. “That’s what delayed you?” Before he could comment further, however, the other militiaman returned. “The ambassador will see you in the morning,” he announced, passing Arvin’s letter back.
“But I’ve traveled far,” Arvin protested. “And my business is urgent.”
“In the morning,” he said firmly.
Silently, Arvin cursed the thief who had delayed him. Baron Foesmasher was expecting Arvin to show up at the palace tomorrow morning, and—so Arvin had heard—the baron wasn’t a man who liked to be kept waiting. Arvin had hoped to question Dmetrio this evening. If Dmetrio was sleepy, so much the better. It would be easier for Arvin to manifest a charm on him.
“I realize it’s late,” Arvin said, manifesting a charm on the bearded militiaman even as he spoke. “But I won’t have time to come back in the morning. I just need a quick word with the ambassador, and I’ll be on my way.” He smiled and drew the coin pouch from his boot. “I realize he’ll be angry at you for annoying him a second time, but I can make it worth your while. Please let me speak with him. Tonight.”
The bearded militiaman tilted his head—then shook it, like a man shaking himself awake. “No,” he said firmly.
Arvin swore under his breath. The bearded man’s mind must have been as tough as the rest of him.
The younger man stared greedily at Arvin’s coin pouch. “Sergeant,” he said in a low voice. “Couldn’t we just—”
“That’s enough, Rillis,” The sergeant placed a hand on his sword hilt and stared at Arvin through the gate. “The merchant can come back at a civilized hour of the morning … or not at all.”
Arvin let his hand fall away from his pouch. “In the morning, then,” he said with a sigh. Then, “Could you at least tell me where to find a reputable inn?”
CHAPTER 5
The next morning, Arvin rose well before dawn. He dressed in his better clothes and ate a quick meal of fried cheese and thick-crusted bread. He waved away the ale the innkeeper offered; he
wanted a clear head for this morning’s work.
As he stepped outside the inn, the air bit at his lungs, crisp and cold. The sky to the east was turning a faint pink behind the clouds. It had snowed overnight; a few flakes were still falling from the sky. Snow crunched beneath Arvin’s boots as he strode past merchants opening the shutters of their shops, boys kindling fires in the stoves of their mulled-wine carts, and men carrying heavy sacks on their backs as they made early-morning deliveries to the shops and homes in this part of the city. These men were doing the work of slaves, yet not one of them had an S-brand on his cheek.
Arvin had heard that, while slavery existed in Sespech, it was an uncommon practice. Those slaves who did exist within the barony had been brought to Sespech by their masters. Hearing this and seeing it with his own eyes, however, were two different things. It felt odd to be walking along streets populated by free men. It was odder still to have no viaducts arching above—to be on a street that was open to the sky. For perhaps the first time in his life, Arvin walked without the slight hunch that a human in Hlondeth automatically adopted—the tensing of shoulders and neck that came with the constant awareness of the yuan-ti slithering along the viaducts overhead. He felt lighter, somehow, more sure of himself, relaxed.
He smiled.
The smile vanished as something sharp pricked through the fabric of his cloak and shirt, jabbing his back. A hand on his shoulder turned him toward a doorway.
“Inside,” gritted the man behind him.
Arvin risked turning his head slightly. The tall rogue from last night had the hood of his cloak pulled up, but Arvin recognized him by his gaunt, stubbled cheeks. “My pouch is in my boot,” Arvin told him, gesturing at his coin pouch; as soon as the fellow bent for it, Arvin would draw his dagger and stab backhanded through his cloak, giving the rogue a nasty surprise. He put a quaver in his voice. “Please don’t hurt me. Just take my coin and go.”
The rogue pressed the sharp object—most likely a dagger—into Arvin’s back. The blade was icy cold; the flesh around the wound immediately began to ache.
“One thrust, and it will freeze your flesh,” the man promised in a grim voice. “I don’t think you’d survive long with your entrails turned to ice.” He gave Arvin a slight shove. “Now … inside.”
“Listen, friend,” Arvin began, raising his hands so the rogue could see them. He’d use silent speech to show the fellow that he, too, was Guild, albeit from Hlondeth, then hit him with a charm. “I’m one of—”
The dagger pricked harder, drawing a gasp of pain from Arvin. It felt as though a needle of ice were being driven into his back.
“No tricks,” the rogue gritted. “There’s others watching—others with weapons who will take you down if I fall. One suspicious move, mind mage, and you’re a dead man.”
Arvin blinked. How did the rogue know he was a psion? Arvin knew better than to look around. The threat would be genuine; rogues almost never worked alone. “What do you want?” he asked.
“To talk,” the rogue answered.
“All right,” Arvin said. “Let’s talk.” He reached for the handle of the door and opened it.
As he stepped inside what turned out to be cooper’s workshop, he braced himself for what was to come. Someone in the local rogues’ guild must have heard that a member of the Hlondeth Guild was in Sespech. The locals probably wanted to learn what Arvin was doing here—to make sure he wasn’t planning on thieving on their turf. Arvin balled his left hand into a fist and felt the familiar ache of his missing fingertip. He didn’t intend to lose another.
The rogue removed the dagger from Arvin’s back and stepped quickly away from him, closing the door. The weapon was an odd-looking one, made of metal as white as frost and with a spike-shaped blade that tapered to a point, like an icicle. The rogue sheathed it—a bad sign. It meant that the room held other, more potent threats.
Arvin glanced around. The workshop looked ordinary enough; half-finished barrels stood on the floor, next to loose piles of metal hoops. The smell of fresh-sawn wood lingered in the air, suggesting the workshop had been used recently. Chisels, saws, and mallets were scattered about; Arvin could have turned any one of them into a surprise weapon using the power that allowed him to move objects at a distance. He refrained, however, realizing that the tall man probably wasn’t the only rogue in the room. His guess was confirmed a moment later when some sawdust on the floor shifted slightly; a second person, cloaked by invisibility, was also present. The tall man confirmed this a moment later, with two words in the silent speech, directed at his invisible companion: None followed.
Arvin shifted his eyes away from the spot where the invisible person stood, looking at the tall man instead. “What do you want to talk about?”
“We know the baron’s daughter is missing and that you’ve come from Hlondeth to find her,” the rogue said.
Only through years of practice did Arvin manage to prevent his eyes from widening. This wasn’t what he’d expected.
“We want to make you an offer,” the rogue continued.
Arvin raised an eyebrow. “One that’s just too good to refuse?”
The rogue nodded. He pointed at one of the finished barrels; a small leather pouch sat on top of it. “Look inside.”
Arvin stepped over to the pouch and loosened its ties. Something glittered inside: gems—dozens of them. Seeing the way they sparkled, even in the dim light of the shop, Arvin realized what they were: diamonds. Small, easily portable and immensely valuable, they were a currency that could be spent anywhere in Faerûn that Arvin might care to go.
Assuming they weren’t just an illusion, which gave him an idea. “How do I know they’re real?” he asked.
“Inspect them as closely as you like,” the rogue offered.
“May I use magic to evaluate their worth?”
The rogue hesitated. “No tricks,” he warned. “Or—”
“I know, I know. Or I’m a dead man,” Arvin continued. “Don’t worry. There will be no tricks.”
He bent over the pouch and stirred the gems with a finger. They seemed real enough. Then he braced himself; it was now or never. He picked up the pouch and manifested the power that would allow him to listen to the thoughts of those in the room. Silver sparkles erupted from his third eye and streamed toward his hand, dissipating as they hit the gems; if his bluff held, the rogue would think the spell was targeting them. Out of the corner of his eye, Arvin saw the rogue frowning, as if listening to a distant, half-heard sound. Arvin wondered if the invisible person was doing the same thing.
An instant later, his question was answered. Two separate voices whispered into his mind: the thoughts of the rogue and the invisible person. Ignoring the former—he would be an expendable member of the guild, one who’d been told as little as possible—Arvin concentrated on the latter. The thoughts were those of a man who stood with his finger on the trigger of a crossbow, loaded with a bolt whose head was smeared with a poison more lethal than yuan-ti venom. Worse yet, the trigger was a dead man’s switch: if the invisible man relaxed his finger, even a little, the crossbow would shoot.
Arvin hid his shudder and gestured at the gems. “What do I have to do to earn this?”
“The girl,” the rogue answered. “When you find her, give her to us.”
Arvin nodded, concentrating on the thoughts of the second man. The fellow was worried about the diamonds, which were real enough. If he killed the psion, they’d scatter on the floor, and some might be lost in the cracks. If even one went missing, someone named Haskar would have his head.
“What will you do with Glisena?” Arvin asked.
“Ransom her,” the rogue answered. He gestured at the pouch. “For a lot of coin. What we’re going to demand from the baron will make that look like the contents of a beggar’s cup.”
Arvin nodded, still listening to the thoughts of the second man. The guild wasn’t going to ransom Glisena to the baron. No, that would be too dangerous. They’d sell her, inst
ead. Lord Wianar would pay well for the girl—and there would be no need for dangerous exchanges or worrying about those damn clerics.
Arvin nodded to himself. Alarmed though he was at the thought that the local rogues’ guild knew who he was—they must have a spy in the baron’s court—he was relieved to find that their plan was so simplistic. He let his manifestation end, satisfied he’d learned everything he could.
Somewhere outside, a horn sounded three times: the morning call to prayer for Helm’s faithful. The rogue ignored it.
“How do I contact you?” Arvin asked.
“Enter any tavern and make this sign,” the rogue instructed. With a finger, he rubbed first the inside corner of his right eye, then the outside corner.
Arvin smiled to himself. It was one of the first words in silent speech the Guild had taught him.
“When you see someone make this sign,” the rogue continued, making a V with the first two fingers of his right hand and drawing them along his left forearm from elbow to wrist, “you’ll know you’ve found us.” He paused. “Do we have an agreement?”
Arvin nodded. “It’s certainly a tempting offer,” he said. “I’ll let you know.” He set the pouch back on the barrel—carefully, so none of the diamonds spilled. “May I go now?”
The rogue opened the door and stepped away from it. As Arvin walked past him, he moved his hand to the hilt of his dagger. “Just remember,” he warned in a low voice. “We’ll be watching you. Don’t cross us.”
Arvin nodded. The rogue wasn’t telling him anything new. If Sespech’s rogues’ guild was anything like Hlondeth’s, Arvin’s every move would be marked.
It had been bad enough, finding Zelia in Sespech.
Now he had a second reason to watch his back.
Arvin went directly to Dmetrio’s residence. There was no need to be secretive about his destination—not when the local rogues’ guild knew who he was. The meeting with its two representatives had taken only a short time; the sun had risen, painting the winter sky a dull white, but it was still early in the morning. The same two militiamen were still on guard duty outside the residence. The younger man was yawning widely—and being glared at by his sergeant.