Venom's Taste

by Lisa Smedman

  A thought suddenly occurred to Arvin—one that sent a shiver through him. He caught the wizard’s eye. “You called the potion something else, a ‘compulsive enchantment,’” he said. “What does that mean?”

  “A compulsive enchantment allows a wizard to dominate his victim,” Hazzan answered.

  Gonthril was quickest to catch on. “That bastard,” he gritted. “He doesn’t just want to turn us into serpent folk. He wants to turn us into his slaves.”

  Chorl’s grip on his staff tightened. “This man might already be in Osran’s power,” he said, gesturing at Arvin. “All the more reason to—”

  Gonthril silenced him with an angry glare. As Chorl flushed suddenly, Arvin realized what had just happened. In his anger, Chorl had let slip something he shouldn’t have—the name of the yuan-ti who had been seen meeting with the Pox.

  Osran Extaminos, youngest brother of Lady Dediana

  Arvin pretended not to have noticed the slip. “Can you dispel the potion’s magic?” he asked Hazzan. He curled the fingers of his gloved hand, readying it for his dagger, as he waited for the wizard’s reply. If the answer was no, he’d have to fight his way out.

  Hazzan stroked his beard. “Possibly.”

  Gonthril took a deep breath. “For the sake of Hlondeth’s true people, Talona grant it be so,” he whispered. Then, to the wizard, he said, “Try.”

  Hazzan rolled up his sleeves then extended his right hand toward Arvin, pointing. Staring intently into Arvin’s eyes, he began casting a spell. The incantation took only a moment; the final word was a shout. As it erupted from his wizard’s lips Hazzan flicked his forefinger and Arvin felt a wave of magical energy punch into his chest. It coursed through his body like an electric shock, making his fingers and toes tingle and the hair rise on the back of his neck. Then it was gone.

  Gonthril peered at Arvin. “Did it work?”

  “Let’s find out.” Hazzan picked up the chalice and tipped the potion out of it, pouring it into the mortar. Then he pulled a scrap of cloth out of a pocket and wiped the inside of the chalice clean. He then held out a hand. “Give me your hand,” he told Arvin, picking up the scissors.

  Arvin drew back, unpleasant memories of the Guild filling his thoughts. “What are you going to do?”

  “He needs a sample of your blood,” Gonthril told Arvin. “To see if the potion is still in it.”

  “All right.” Arvin answered reluctantly, placing his hand in Hazzan’s. “As long as it doesn’t cost me another fingertip.”

  Gonthril chuckled.

  “A small incision should do,” Hazzan reassured him. “I just need a few drops of blood, enough to cover the bottom of the chalice.”

  He winced as Hazzan sliced into his finger with the blade of the scissors—deliberate cuts always hurt more, it seemed, than those inflicted in a fight—but kept his hand steady over the chalice. A few drops of blood leaked into it, splattering against the clear glass.

  “That’s enough,” Hazzan said.

  Arvin pressed against the cut in his finger, staunching the blood. He sat back down and stared at the bowl of the chalice. Strangely, though the blood had been red as it had dripped into the bowl, now it looked clear as water—so clear that for a moment he thought the blood had disappeared. He leaned forward, peering down into the mouth of the chalice again, and saw that it was indeed drizzled with bright red blood. Surprised, he started to let out an involuntary hiss—and saw Chorl’s frown deepen.

  Hazzan—once again peering through the side of the chalice at the lantern—nodded. “The spell worked,” he told Gonthril. “The potion has been neutralized.”

  Chorl stared at Arvin. “Why’s he still hissing, then?”

  Gonthril stared at Arvin thoughtfully. “I don’t know.”

  Arvin did. It was the mind seed. Zelia hadn’t been bluffing, after all.

  “I still say we should get rid of him,” Chorl urged.

  The rebel leader shook his head. “Arvin will stay with us, for the time being. There may be ways in which he can aid our cause. But keep a close eye on him, Chorl, and let me know if he does anything suspicious. If he takes any hostile action against us, or attempts to escape, I leave his punishment to your discretion.”

  Arvin matched glares with Chorl, and for a moment actually considered summoning his dagger into his hand and plunging it into the man’s heart. But this done, the odds of Arvin being the next one to die would be very high indeed. Mortin held his sword at the ready, the wizard could blast him with magic, and the gods only knew what the rings on Gonthril’s fingers were capable of doing.

  No, there were other, better ways to deal with the situation. Arvin relaxed his grimace into a smile and tried to summon up the familiar prickle of psionic energy. None came. And for good reason, he suddenly realized. He was exhausted, on the verge of collapsing on his feet. Only rarely had he been able to charm anyone under these conditions.

  No matter. He could always do it later, when the odds of escape were better.

  “Don’t worry,” he assured Gonthril. “I’ll behave.”

  “Do I have your word you won’t try to escape?” Gonthril asked.

  Arvin smiled to himself; he wasn’t bound by the ring any longer. “You have my word,” he said solemnly.

  CHAPTER 10

  24 Kythorn, Sunset

  In his dream, Arvin moved through a crowd of laughing people who stood in a vineyard outside the city, their faces painted a ruddy orange by a bonfire that sent sparks spinning up into the night. Some stood and watched, tipping back bottles of wine, while others danced, arms linked as they moved in giddy circles around the bonfire. Several held small rectangles of wood, painted red and inscribed with a single word: “Chondath.” These they threw into the fire, together with spoiled fruits and limp, moldy vegetables. The air was filled with smoke, sparks, and the hissing noise of food being blackened by flame.

  The humans called it the Rotting Dance. It was a celebration of the defeat of Chondath in the Rotting War of 902, of the rise of the city-states of the Vilhon Reach. Hlondeth had gained its independence nearly three centuries before necromantic magic laid waste to the empire’s armies on the Fields of Nun, and its people had suffered the aftermath of that battle—a plague that spread through the Vilhon Reach, afflicting those it touched with a disease that caused even the smallest of cuts to turn gangrenous. But its citizens celebrated the Rotting Dance just the same. Humans needed very little excuse for frivolity. Emotion was just one of their many weaknesses.

  Arvin weaved his way through the humans, his tongue flickering in and out of his mouth as he tasted the excitement that laced the night air. Whenever he saw a man that caught his eye—one who was strong and well muscled, with lean hips and a glint in his eye that showed he was of a better stock than the average human—he worked his magic on him. “Come,” he whispered, staring intently into the man’s eyes. “Mate with me.”

  One of the men Arvin selected already had a mate picked out for the evening—a human a few years older than Arvin, and prettier, by human standards. No matter. When she protested, Arvin merely stared at her. She began to tremble then, with a small shriek, dropped the man’s arm, surrendering him to Arvin, and fled into the night.

  A part of Arvin’s mind, observing the dream from a distance, recoiled at the thought of propositioning men. But to his dreaming mind, the act felt as natural as his own skin. He swayed through the crowd, the five men he had chosen trailing in his wake, each of them yearning to stroke his scales, to touch his newly budding breasts, and to press themselves against his curved hips. Flicking his tongue, tasting their desire, he felt a surge of power. He might be just fourteen years old and in his first flush of sexuality, but he was in control. He owned these men, as surely as a master owns slaves.

  He led the men to a secluded spot in a nearby field and, as they converged on him, unfastened the pin at his throat and let his dress fall around his ankles, shedding it like an old skin. As the men stepped forward eagerly, p
ressing themselves against him and tearing at their clothes, he drew a curtain of darkness around them. Then he pulled the men to the ground, where they formed a mating ball with Arvin at its center. A hard body pressed against his and was wrenched away, only to be replaced by another—and another—as the men wrestled with each other in an attempt to mate with Arvin. The smell of their sweat and of crushed grapes and torn earth filled Arvin’s nostrils as he slithered through the tangle of bodies, coiling around first one man, then another, taking each of them in turn. Acidic sweat erupted on his own body, soaking his hair and lubricating his scales—and burning the thin, sensitive skin of the humans who twined and fought and thrust against him. As ecstasy surged through Arvin again … and again … and again … he gave vent to his passion, screaming and throwing his head back then lashing forward to sink his fangs into throats and thighs and chests. One by one the men coiled around him abruptly gasped, stiffened, and fell limp as poison usurped passion.

  When it was done, Arvin lay on his back on warm, sweat-soaked soil, his forked tongue savoring the taste of blood on his lips. He smiled, satisfied that there would be no one to tell his guilty secret—that he felt an unnatural attraction toward an inferior race. A heavy body lay across him; he shoved it to the side. Then he assumed snake form and slithered off into the night, leaving the tangled remains of his lovemaking cooling on the ground behind him.

  Arvin’s eyes sprang open as he was wakened by the urgency in his loins. He found himself lying on a straw pallet in a dimly lit room. A pace or two away, Mortin sat with his back against the wall, eyes closed, his sword on the floor beside him. For a moment, as Arvin stared at the handsome young man, dream and waking seemed to blend. Had he really just mated with Mortin and killed him? No … Mortin was still breathing; he’d merely fallen asleep. He was a member of the Secession, not a reveler, and he was guarding Arvin—though he was doing a poor job of it.

  Arvin sat up, rubbing his temples. The headache that had been plaguing him was back again, despite his sleep. Doing his best to ignore it—and the unsettling dream—he forced his mind to the here and now. He was human, he told himself—and male—not a lustful yuan-ti female, as he’d been in the dream.

  A yuan-ti female with the power to work magic with a mere thought.

  Zelia.

  Arvin cursed softly. Had the mind seed caused him to listen in on her thoughts again in his sleep? It seemed strange that, once again, he had picked up her memories, rather than her thoughts about more pressing matters, but maybe that was the way yuan-ti minds worked. Maybe all that lazy basking in the sun prompted them to dwell on the past, rather than the current moment.

  Speaking of which, what time of day was it? Arvin’s visit to the wizard had been around Sunrise. Afterward, Gonthril had given him a meal and some wine to wash it down. He’d even returned Arvin’s backpack—after a thorough inspection of its contents by Hazzan, who seemed fascinated by Arvin’s trollgut rope. Then Arvin had curled up to sleep, alone in the room except for Mortin, who had remained behind to keep a watch on him.

  It must have been well into Fullday. The need Arvin felt to relieve himself told him that he’d slept a long, long time. As he yawned, a suspicion started to dawn in his mind, fueled by the grogginess he felt. He’d been drugged. Maybe that was why only Mortin had been left to watch him—Gonthril had expected Arvin to sleep much longer than he did. If it weren’t for the wild dream that had jolted him into wakefulness, Arvin might have slumbered for some time still.

  As he sat on his pallet, thinking, he noticed he was swaying back and forth. Not only that, but he was wetting his lips again. His tongue felt shorter and thicker than it should have been … no, than it had been during the dream, he corrected himself. The stray thought alarmed him. The mind seed was still firmly rooted, despite the fact that Hazzan had cast a dispelling on him. Was there no way to get the gods-cursed thing out of his head?

  He hissed as anger frothed inside him. Anger at the Pox for what they’d done to Naulg and their other victims. Anger at Osran Extaminos for inviting the cultists into the city. And, most especially, anger at Zelia for what she’d done to him.

  If he was ever going to free himself of the mind seed, he needed to get going.

  Arvin stood and put on his backpack. Thankfully, Mortin was still asleep. Moving silently past him, Arvin crept to the door. Not only was it unlocked, but the hinges of the door didn’t creak when he slowly pulled it open. And—Tymora be praised—the hallway beyond it was empty.

  Arvin closed the door behind him and let his eyes adjust to the hallway’s gloom. Slipping out of the room had been too easy. Perhaps the Secession were toying with Arvin. Chorl might be just around the bend, happy to have an excuse to kill him.

  Wandering the corridors unescorted seemed like an excellent excuse to Arvin.

  He summoned his dagger into his gloved hand and crept down the hallway.

  The first room he came to was a smaller version of the one he’d just left; through its open door Arvin could see sleeping pallets on the floor. Those in Arvin’s field of view were empty, but the sound of a man’s voice came from inside. It sounded as though he was singing a low, dirgelike hymn.

  A lantern in this room was burning brightly, flooding the corridor with light. The doorway reached from floor to ceiling. There was no way for Arvin to sneak past it and not be seen by whoever was inside the room. Unless he had his back to him, of course.

  Crouching, he held his dagger just above the floor and moved the blade slowly into the doorway. By tilting it, he could see a reflection of the inside of the room—a narrow, blurry reflection, but one that told him that Tymora’s luck was still with him. The man’s back was indeed to the door. He was bent over someone in a pallet; a moment later Arvin heard a woman’s faint groan. Curious, he risked a peek.

  It was Kayla on the pallet. Her face was flushed, her hair damp and tangled. She lay on her back, turning her head back and forth, groaning softly.

  The sight sent a chill through Arvin’s blood. Had Kayla succumbed to the disease that had pockmarked the cultists—or some other, even more terrible illness? The fleshy mound she’d fought had been one enormous, pus-filled bag of disease, and she’d been splattered with its fluids—perhaps that was what had laid her low.

  Whatever the cause, at least a cleric was tending to her—the man who had his back to Arvin. If the fellow was wearing clerical vestments, however, they were of a faith that Arvin didn’t recognize. They included a black shirt and long gray kilt that was belted with a red sash. Black leather gloves lay on the floor beside him. The cleric’s dark brown hair was plaited in a single braid that hung against his back. One of his hands held Kayla’s; the other was raised above his head. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing a patchwork of blotchy scars, faded to a dull white, on his forearms. They looked like old burn marks.

  “Lord of the Three Thunders,” he chanted, lowering his hand to touch Kayla on the forehead. “Free this woman from fever’s grip. Heal her so she may live to carry out your divine justice.”

  The healing spell was almost finished. Any moment the cleric might turn around and see Arvin peering into the room. Arvin slipped past the doorway and continued down the corridor.

  The rest of the doors he passed were closed. It was only a short distance to the spiraling tunnel that led back to the surface. Arvin wasn’t sure how he was going to get the trapdoor in the gazebo floor open, but he’d deal with that problem when it presented itself.

  As he drew near the room where the wizard had analyzed the potion, he heard voices coming from behind its closed door. One was unmistakable: Gonthril’s. He was giving instructions on how the Secession would sneak into a building. Arvin paused to listen, excitement making his heart race. There was a good chance the Secession were planning a raid on wherever the Pox were holed up—Arvin might at last be able to learn where the cultists were hiding. But try as he might, Arvin couldn’t puzzle out which building they were talking about. The only clear detail wa
s that they were going to strike during the very heart of the evening—at Middark.

  No matter. Arvin could always wait in the garden above then follow them. Assuming he got that far.

  He tiptoed past the door to the wrought-iron gate, which was closed. The room beyond it was in near darkness; the lantern that hung from the ceiling had its wick trimmed low. Arvin gently pulled on the gate. It was indeed locked, as he’d expected. He vanished his dagger into his glove then unfastened his belt. Digging a fingernail into a slot in the tongue of the buckle, he pulled out a hook that clicked into place. Inserting his pick into the hole in the lock plate, he twisted until he felt one pin click back … then a second … then a third….

  He grinned as the bolt sprang open. He tried to open the gate—

  He couldn’t move.

  Not a muscle. His eyes continued to blink and his chest rose and fell—albeit only in short, shallow breaths—and his heart thudded in his chest. But the rest of his body was as still as a statue. Realizing he must have fallen victim to a spell, he strained against it until sweat blossomed on his temples and trickled down his cheeks, but still he couldn’t move.

  Stupid. He’d been stupid to think they’d simply let him walk away. He should have paid attention to the warning voice that had told him it was all too easy.

  Meanwhile, the voices continued from behind the door. It sounded as though Gonthril was wrapping up the meeting. At any moment, the door would open—and Chorl would have all the excuse he needed to kill Arvin.

  Arvin could hear Chorl’s voice coming from behind the door. “I’m in favor,” Chorl growled. “It will send a message to that scaly bitch—that she’s not safe anywhere.”

  Another voice—one Arvin didn’t recognize—raised an objection. “I still think we should ambush him in the street.”

  “He’ll be on his guard there,” Gonthril answered. “Especially after what happened to the overseer.”

  “That was just thieves, trying to steal whatever it was the work crews found in the old tower,” someone else protested.