Vanity's Brood

by Lisa Smedman

  Then it would kill him.

  If Arvin could have closed his eyes, he would have. He didn’t want to see the dwarf-seed gloating.

  What he did see surprised him. The seed suddenly jerked and his eyes widened. He whirled, and as his back came into Arvin’s view, Arvin saw the dart that had lodged in the seed’s neck.

  “No!” the seed gasped. “Not—”

  Then he fell.

  As the rigid body struck the ground, Arvin felt the net that held his mind fray then suddenly loosen. He saw Pakal step from the jungle, blowpipe in hand. Astonished, he gaped at the dwarf—but only for a heartbeat.

  Karrell, he thought. The children …

  He turned and raced back toward the hut.

  As he neared it, he heard a baby’s cry. Then another. Then Karrell’s voice, thanking Ubtao. He plunged inside and saw Karrell holding both children in her arms, tears streaming down her cheeks. The midwife and her assistant stood nearby, relieved looks on their faces.

  Arvin fell to his knees beside Karrell. “By the gods,” he said. “I thought I’d lost all three of you.”

  Karrell closed her eyes and took a shuddering breath. The children in her arms continued to cry, strong, healthy wails. Arvin gently stroked his son’s hair then his daughter’s. They were alive. He touched a hand to the stone that hung at his neck.

  “Nine lives,” he whispered to himself.

  Karrell’s eyes opened. They bored into Arvin’s “It was her, wasn’t it?”

  Arvin nodded grimly. “One of her seeds.”

  “Is it—”

  “Dead?” Arvin asked. “Yes, Tymora be praised. By a stroke of her luck, Pakal happened to be—”

  Hearing something behind him, Arvin turned. Pakal stood in the doorway, arms folded.

  Arvin crossed the hut and squatted in front of the dwarf. “You saved my life,” he said, “and Karrell’s, and our children’s.” He let out a long sigh. “I thought you’d gone back to your people. How did you manage to show up in just the right place and at just the right time?”

  Pakal grunted. He said something in his own language—a brief prayer—then spoke in the common tongue. His eyes were smiling. “Having me watch the village was your idea. You anticipated that a seed might come.”

  “My idea?” Arvin echoed.

  Pakal nodded. He touched a thick finger to Arvin’s temple. “The memory. You erased it.”

  “Ah.” Arvin said. Suddenly understanding his lingering unease.

  Karrell passed the twins to the other women and rose to her feet. “You knew that a seed would attack us?” she said, rounding on Arvin. “You might have told me.”

  “He could not, Karrell,” Pakal said. “The seed might have probed your thoughts and learned that I was lying in wait for it.”

  Karrell continued to rage. “You risked our children’s lives, just to eliminate one seed?” she shouted. “You might have killed this one, but what now? Will you erase all of our memories of what just happened and send Pakal back into the jungle to wait until the next seed comes? And the next? And the one after that?”

  Arvin balled his fists. Karrell was right. More seeds would come. Arvin and Karrell might flee, but there would be no guarantee that wherever they chose to hide wouldn’t be home to another of Zelia’s seeds, and once Zelia learned the Circled Serpent had been destroyed, she’d stop at nothing to have her revenge. As she’d demonstrated, killing Arvin alone wouldn’t be enough.

  Pakal interrupted that grim thought. “There is a way to end this,” he said. He turned to Arvin. “Before you erased your memory, you told me to remind you of this: one year ago, you stripped away Zelia’s power to create seeds at will. Since then, she has been able to seed only two people: Naneth and Dmetrio. Both are dead. All of her other seeds—those created before Zelia met you—do not share her animosity toward you. They simply do as Zelia orders. To them, you are just another target for them to kill. Eliminate Zelia, and no more such orders will be given.”

  “That much is obvious,” Arvin said, “but it raises one big question. Did I happen to tell you why I didn’t set out for Hlondeth at once?” He glanced at the twins. “Aside from the obvious reason?”

  Pakal smiled. “Before confronting Zelia in her tower, you needed to learn more about its defences,” Pakal answered. “I have a spell that allows me to question the dead—and the dead cannot lie.”

  Arvin smiled. “Not a bad plan,” he said. “I wish I’d thought of it.”

  Pakal grinned. “You did.”

  Arvin glanced at Karrell. The anger had fled from her eyes; determination had replaced it. “I’ll come too,” she said. “My magic—”

  “Is needed to protect the children,” Arvin said. “If another seed should find them while I’m gone….”

  Karrell’s mouth tightened. She held his eyes a moment longer, then nodded. “Do it,” she said. “Kill her. End this.”

  Arvin and Pakal strode across the flagstone plaza toward the pyramid that dominated the center of the city. Ss’inthee’ssaree was as ancient as Ss’yin, but unlike the Jenestaa, the Se’sehen had worked hard to reclaim it from the jungle. The buildings that ringed the plaza had been repaired and restored to their former glory, their stonework cleaned and remortared. The serpents that twined on their carved facades had been repainted in bright colors. The flagstones underfoot were smooth and even, without so much as a tendril of vine growing between their cracks.

  They were also stained with dried blood. House Extaminos had not only triumphed over the Se’sehen in Hlondeth but had carried the fight to the Black Jungle. Sibyl had inadvertently shown them the way, when she used the portal on Mount Ugruth to follow Arvin and Pakal. House Extaminos controlled what had once been the Se’sehen stronghold.

  Flies rose lazily into the air as Arvin skirted the largest of the dark brown stains that marked the plaza. The corpses of those who had fallen in battle had been carried away, but the smell of death still rose from the sun-hot stones.

  A score of Hlondeth’s militia stood guard in front of Arvin’s destination: the pyramid that housed the Pit of Vipers, a temple identical to the one that had been Sibyl’s lair, a temple that contained the one-way portal the Se’sehen had used to reach Hlondeth.

  Though they were sweltering in bronze chain mail and flared helmets, the Hlondeth militia was alert. They lowered their crossbows and snapped to attention as Arvin approached. Their officer—a halfblood with a narrow, black-scaled face that echoed those of the twined serpents embossed on his breastplate—touched his sword hilt to his chest, then bowed low.

  “Lord Extaminos,” he said. “We thought—”

  “You are paid to obey, not think, Captain Vreshni,” Arvin said, neatly plucking the officer’s name from the man’s mind. He raised his chin haughtily, as Dmetrio would have done. His forked tongue gave his words an imperious hiss. “Accompany me to the portal. I have urgent business in Hlondeth.”

  “Yes, Lord Extaminos,” the officer said, bowing a second time. He sheathed his sword and gestured at the pyramid. “This way.”

  Arvin turned to Pakal, who had also disguised himself as a yuan-ti. The dwarf’s illusion was perfect; his body appeared twice as tall as it really was and slender as a serpent’s. The tattoos on his body had become a pattern of snake scales, his matted braids were gone, and the necklace of claws and teeth around his neck had become a ring of tiny, sparkling jewels set into the scales of his chest, shoulders, and back. The only detail untouched by his illusion was the armband of gold, set with a turquoise stone, on his upper right arm.

  “You may go,” Arvin told Pakal in a cold voice. Using his lapis lazuli, however, he bade the dwarf a more pleasant farewell. Thank you. For everything.

  Pakal returned his grim smile. Thard Harr watch over you, he sent back. And… good luck. He bowed then strode away.

  Arvin followed the officer, moving his feet with a sliding motion as Dmetrio had done. The metamorphosis had been an easy one; Dmetrio’s appearance was stil
l fresh in his mind. The club-toed feet, however, were tricky to walk on.

  The pyramid was tall and narrow. It resembled a series of ever-smaller blocks set one upon the other. Each of the four sides was dominated by a stone serpent that seemed to be slithering down the stonework, its head resting upon the ground, and their four tails twined together at the top of the pyramid. The serpent that decorated the front of the pyramid had its mouth open wide, and its fangs looked as though they were solid silver.

  Arvin suppressed his shudder as he followed the officer into the mouth. It reminded him a little too closely of Sseth. The mouth was open wide enough that Arvin could walk upright, but an edge of the officer’s flared helmet scraped against one of the silver fangs, causing him to duck.

  A smooth ramp led down to a chamber filled with soft green light. The walls were carved to resemble scales. A forest of serpent-shaped columns held the weight of the pyramid above at bay. A sweet scent lingered in the air under the heavy musk of snake—osssra, Arvin realized a moment later. Though the braziers that dotted the floor were cold and dark, the stone walls were impregnated with the stuff.

  More militia—six halfblood officers, two of them armed with wands—stood guard in front of a gilded statue: one of the stations of Sseth. The god was depicted in his twin-tailed form, his tails encircling a black obsidian globe that represented the world. Wings flared out from his shoulders, and under each wing was an arched entry. These led to corridors that curved away to the right and left.

  The officers bowed as Arvin approached. One of them touched a hand to his helm. “Shall I inform Lady Dediana of your imminent arrival, Lord Extaminos?”

  “No,” Arvin ordered. “Tell no one.”

  Confusion flitted across the officer’s face but was quickly hidden by his bow. “As you command, Lord Extaminos.”

  Arvin waited for Captain Vreshni to indicate which of the corridors led to the portal. The captain did a moment later by turning slightly toward the left entrance. Arvin strode into it as if he’d known all along which route to take. The captain scurried after him.

  The corridor spiraled down past slit windows that opened onto a central room. Just like the room in the temple under Hlondeth, it was dominated by a dais of black obsidian. The snakes that had once slithered around it were dead. They’d been reduced to ash; a burned stench lingered in the air. Judging by the scorches on the walls, someone must have let loose a blast of magical fire—one of House Extaminos’s wizards, perhaps.

  Just as in Sibyl’s lair in Hlondeth, the portal room’s only other exit was framed by the beastlord’s snarling face—it probably led to a similar temple. More militia stood guard in front of the exit, looking alert and watchful. Captain Vreshni indicated a path had been cleared through the ash, allowing passage to the dais.

  “If you please, Lord Extaminos.”

  Arvin started to thank him, then remembered whom he was impersonating. “Go,” he said curtly, dismissing him.

  The captain bowed his way out of the room.

  Arvin took a deep breath then stepped onto the dais. For several heartbeats, nothing happened. Then the portal activated. He felt a dizzying lurch—and found himself standing in the same room as before.

  No, not the same. The corridor beyond the beastlord’s face was choked with rubble and the lantern light was stronger here. Arvin could hear soft breathing and the creak of a crossbow being drawn. Whoever was guarding this room was invisible.

  Refusing to flinch, Arvin drew himself up and glanced imperiously around the seemingly empty chamber. As he did, he manifested the power that would allow him to listen in on their thoughts.

  There—one of them was casting a spell. It was divination magic: a spell that would confirm whether the visitor who had arrived so abruptly was, indeed, Hlondeth’s missing prince. As the spell quickened, Arvin slid deeper into her mind and neatly snipped out the memory of what her magic had revealed: a human who bore no resemblance whatsoever to Lord Dmetrio. He spliced an image of his metamorphosed form into the hole he’d just created then withdrew.

  “Show yourself,” he commanded.

  A yuan-ti appeared before him. She was a dark-haired woman with yellow scales, wearing the high-collared robe of Sseth’s clergy. One hand held a snake-headed staff that rested on the floor. She frowned for a moment, like someone who’d just walked into a room and forgotten what they’d been looking for, then bowed.

  “Lord Extaminos,” she said. “Welcome back. Your mother will be pleased to hear that you have returned.”

  “Do not inform her … quite yet,” Arvin said.

  The cleric, straightening, arched an eyebrow.

  “There is someone else I must speak with first.”

  Her thoughts bubbled with curiosity. She held her tongue—but not her magic. Arvin felt energy surge from Karrell’s ring, up through his arm and into his mind, shielding it. For just an instant, he slipped the ring from his finger and concentrated on a familiar face—Zelia’s—filling his mind with it until the image crowded every other thought out. Then the ring was back on his finger again.

  The cleric’s lips parted in a smile, baring the tips of her fangs. She hid it behind a bow. “I will escort you, Lord Extaminos. During the attack by the Se’sehen, a number of humans took the opportunity to … cause some problems. The streets are still not entirely secure.”

  She was thinking about Gonthril. The rebel leader and his followers had been stirring up trouble, it seemed. More than that, several sections of the city, including a stretch of its waterfront, had fallen into human hands, but once the militia returned from down south, she was thinking, all that would end. The uprising would be crushed and the slaves who had dared to claim their freedom would be put back in their place.

  “You will show me to the surface, then resume your duties here,” Arvin commanded.

  “As you wish,” the cleric demurred.

  Her thoughts told him much more. Lady Dediana had grown suspicious of Zelia of late, suspicious of the hold the mind mage seemed to have over the royal son. The queen suspected a plot—and “Dmetrio’s” insistence on not telling his mother about his return had confirmed it. He would be watched. Carefully.

  Arvin smiled to himself. Years of working for the Guild had taught him how to slip away from even the most persistent watchers, and his psionics would take care of any who was armed with magic. Meanwhile, the cleric would confirm Lady Dediana’s fears. If Arvin was unsuccessful in his bid to take Zelia down, House Extaminos would surely finish the job.

  For the moment, however, there was someone he needed to make contact with, someone he needed to persuade to help if his plan was to come to fruition.

  “Your concern for my well being is … appreciated,” he told the cleric, “but also unfounded. I can take care of myself.”

  Arvin stared across the table at Gonthril. The rebel leader hadn’t bothered to disguise himself, save for the cloak hood he’d just allowed to fall back against his shoulders. His rebels—for the moment—had control of the waterfront, including one particular tavern.

  The Mortal Coil.

  Arvin smiled when Gonthril had suggested it as a meeting place. When Arvin had used a sending to contact Gonthril, he’d wondered if the rebel leader would bother to reply. It had been a year since they’d last seen one another. That they were meeting in the place where Arvin’s troubles had begun was ironic. The head of the serpent was closing in on the tail.

  Though the harbor outside was nearly empty of ships—most had fled when the Se’sehen attack began—the tavern was just as Arvin remembered it. Pipe smoke had stained the coiled-rope ceiling that had given the place its name, and the air still smelled of unwashed sailors and ale. The circular walls were still damp and the benches were as hard as ever. The only “patrons,” however, were Gonthril’s people, who stood alert and ready, crossbows in hand. Nobody was behind the bar—and nobody was drinking.

  Gonthril looked the same but somehow older, aged by a year of hiding and fightin
g. Arvin, too, had aged. The two men still looked as close as brothers. Gonthril’s eyes, however, were blue, and the little finger of his left hand was whole.

  “You said you had something to offer me?” he asked. “Something I would find valuable?”

  Arvin nodded and leaned forward in his chair. “Information.”

  “About what?”

  “House Extaminos. Its secrets … and its weaknesses. Everything your uprising needs to succeed.”

  Gonthril’s eyes glittered. “Tell me more.”

  “There’s a yuan-ti,” Arvin began, “a mind mage named Zelia.”

  “I’ve never heard the name.”

  Arvin smiled. “That doesn’t surprise me. Zelia makes a point of keeping out of the public eye. She controls a network of spies who have infiltrated not just House Extaminos but every major yuan-ti House in Hlondeth.”

  “How?”

  “By passing themselves off as members of those Houses. The family members are eliminated, and the spies take their place.”

  Gonthril frowned, and thought a moment. “These spies—are they dopplegangers?”

  Arvin’s eyesbrows raised. The rebel leader had a quicker mind than he’d expected. “In a manner of speaking, yes.”

  “The information they have gathered—is it written down?”

  “No,” Arvin said. “It’s all inside Zelia’s head, but there’s a way to get it out.”

  “How?” Gonthril asked, skepticism plain in his voice.

  “By killing her. Once that’s done, I can put you in touch with a cleric who can speak with the dead.”

  Gonthril’s eyes bored into Arvin’s. “Why do you want this woman dead?”

  “For several reasons,” Arvin answered. “The simple answer is that if I don’t kill her, she’ll kill me.” He spread his hands. “That’s not what really concerns me. Zelia won’t stop there. She’ll also make sure my wife and children die.”

  Gonthril’s eyebrows rose. “You’ve been busy, this past year.”