Venom's Taste

by Lisa Smedman

  Arvin slowed, suddenly realizing something. He’d questioned the cultist, but he hadn’t searched him. There hadn’t been time. For all Arvin knew, there might have been something on the body that would lead Arvin straight to the cultists. And thanks to Zelia, Arvin had a tool he could use to search the body from a safe distance.

  Arvin hurried to his warehouse. It didn’t take him long to get there—the streets were emptying of people as Middark approached. He passed the public fountain and turned into the intersection his warehouse fronted. He saw that the front door was still shut—and unmarked. He bypassed it, holding his breath as soon as he caught the rotten odor coming from behind the door, and made for one of the barred windows, instead. Leaping up, he grabbed the bars, supporting himself, and peered in. The corpse—or rather, what was left of it—was still tangled in the magical rope. It lay on the floor just inside the door. The cultist’s tunic was disheveled, but Arvin could see that it had at least one pocket.

  He concentrated, drawing psionic energy up into his “third eye.” He sent it out and saw a streak of silver light flash toward the corpse. As soon as it touched the pocket Arvin gave it a mental yank and heard the fabric tear. Three items spilled out: a leather sling, a lumpy-looking pouch that probably contained sling stones—and a key.

  Immediately, Arvin coiled his mental energy around the key. He yanked, and the key lifted in the air and sailed toward the window. Springing back from the wall, Arvin landed on the street below, pulling the key out between the bars. It landed with a dull clink on the cobblestones at his feet.

  Arvin stared at it, his heart racing. This was no ordinary key, intended to fit the door of an inn or warehouse. It was made from a peculiar reddish metal, was as long as Arvin’s index finger, and had teeth that were an odd shape. They were jagged and triangular, instead of square. It probably opened a lock that was equally unusual. Possibly the door to whatever building the Pox had chosen for their hiding place.

  Arvin carefully picked it up—with his gloved hand—and spoke the glove’s command word, sending the key into extra-dimensional space. Then he set out for the artisan’s section of the city. That was where Lorin, the Guild member he’d purchased his belt buckle from, had his workshop. Lorin was a master locksmith; if anyone knew what lock this key fit into, he would.

  24 Kythorn, Middark

  Arvin banged at the shutters of the Lorin’s workshop. After a few moments they opened. Lorin’s apprentice—a slender boy in his teens with mouse-brown hair as fuzzy as frayed rope—stared out at Arvin, yawning.

  “Is Lorin here?” Arvin asked. Silently, his fingers added, I’m Guild.

  The apprentice shook his head. “He’s out on business.” He stressed the last word, adding a wink to it, then yawned again.

  “When will he be back?” Arvin asked, irritation rising in him.

  “I dunno. Maybe tomorrow morning. Maybe the next day.”

  Arvin hissed in frustration. Tymora wasn’t with him tonight, it seemed. Should he wait—or try to find another locksmith? The trouble was, Lorin was the only one he knew for certain was Guild. “Fetch him,” he demanded. “At once or I’ll—”

  Only at the last moment did Arvin realize what was happening. It was the mind seed again, intruding upon his thoughts, stirring up his emotions like a nest of spitting vipers. With an effort, Arvin forced himself to calm down. “Sorry,” he apologized, rubbing his temple. “But it’s important. Can I leave something here for Lorin?”

  “What?” the apprentice asked.

  “A key—one I’d like him to identify, if he can. I’ll pay well for whatever information he can provide.” To back up his words, he passed the apprentice a gold piece.

  The apprentice suddenly wasn’t sleepy any more. He pocketed the gold piece and held out a hand. “Leave the key with me.”

  Arvin shook his head. “You mustn’t touch it,” he cautioned. “It came from the pocket of a dead man—a man who died of plague.”

  The apprentice’s face paled. He drew back from the window, and for a moment Arvin worried that he’d slam the shutter in Arvin’s face. But after a moment’s fumbling inside the workshop, he reappeared. “Plague,” he said with a shudder. “No wonder you’re so edgy.” He held out a ceramic jar, which he uncorked. “Put the key in this.”

  “Good idea.” Arvin summoned the key into his gloved hand and dropped it inside the jar, which the apprentice hurriedly corked.

  “Tell Lorin I need the information as soon as possible,” Arvin instructed. “It’s urgent. The life of a Guild member is at stake.”

  The apprentice nodded, his eyes serious. “I’ll tell Lorin about it as soon as he gets back,” he promised.

  “Thanks.” Turning away from the window, Arvin set off down the street, seething with barely subdued frustration at the delay. It was unacceptable, intolerable—

  He’d walked some distance before he realized that he was hissing—and that worried him. The mind seed’s hold was intensifying. Arvin was thinking more and more like a yuan-ti—reacting like one, too. His dreams, crowded with Zelia’s memories, were no longer his own. Even in his waking moments it was difficult to hold on to himself. He never knew when he was going to lose control, when the mind seed was going to twist his thoughts and emotions in a direction that frightened him. His mind was like a tiny mouse half-swallowed by a snake. Squeal though the mouse might, it was only a matter of time before its head disappeared down the serpent’s throat.

  Arvin wet his lips nervously then grimaced as he realized what he’d just done. At least he was still noticing the odd mannerisms.

  He wandered the streets with no clear destination in mind. What he really needed was someone to talk to—someone in whom to confide. He had dozens of associates among the Guild, but that was all they were—customers and contacts. Naulg was the only one Arvin could call a friend. There weren’t any woman to whom Arvin could turn. Wary of ever getting too close to anyone, he’d never formed a permanent bond with a member of the opposite sex. He’d rarely slept with the same woman twice, let alone become a lover and confidant to one.

  Yet he needed help—that much was clear.

  Nothing, it seemed, could dislodge the mind seed. Wizardry had failed, prayers had failed, and there was no known potion that would work against it. Then his footsteps slowed as he realized there was one form of magic he’d not yet tried.

  Psionics.

  From childhood, he dimly remembered his mother once mentioning that psionic powers could be “negated.” Presumably, this was a process akin to a wizard or cleric dispelling a spell. If Arvin could find a psion—one who was willing to help him and who was powerful enough to counter the mind seed—perhaps he could free himself from it. But where was he going to find a psion? In his twenty-six years in Hlondeth, Arvin had only met one, other than his mother. Zelia. Was there really no one else, or had Arvin just not recognized the subtle signs?

  The secondary displays, for example. Zelia and Nicco had both recognized Arvin as a psion by the ringing sound they’d heard when Arvin had manifested his charms. Zelia had attributed the secondary display to the fact that Arvin was untrained, implying that more powerful psions didn’t produce any such telltale traces. But what if she’d been lying? On several occasions, Arvin had noticed her eyes flashing silver as they “reflected” the light—even when the light was behind her. Was that a secondary display, too?

  As Arvin thought about it, he realized there was someone else who had produced something that might have been a secondary display when working his “magic”—Tanju, the militia tracker. When Tanju had tried to view the inside of the enormous pot Arvin had fallen into, Arvin had heard a low humming similar to the drone that Arvin’s distract power produced. He’d assumed Tanju had been humming to himself, but the noise might have, in fact, been an involuntary secondary display. And there was the bundle of crystals Tanju had been carrying….

  With a start, Arvin realized he knew what they were: a “crystal capacitor,” a device for
storing psionic energy. The capacitor was charged using a complex series of asanas, which directed energy from the muladhara up into….

  Arvin shook his head. He was doing it again. Linking, thanks to the mind seed, with Zelia’s memories and drawing information from them.

  He saw that his wanderings had carried him to the vicinity of Zelia’s rooftop garden. He could see the tower between the buildings up ahead. How in the Nine Hells had he allowed himself to wander so near to it?

  He turned abruptly, intending to stride away in the direction from which he’d just come and nearly collided with a man who had been walking a few steps behind him. The fellow had his neck craned to look up at the buildings ahead of him and saw Arvin only at the last moment. He gave an irritated hiss—which made Arvin take a second glance at the fellow. All Arvin needed was to run afoul of a yuan-ti. But this fellow appeared wholly human—and he had four chevrons branded into his arm. Yuan-ti were never called for militia service.

  Muttering his apologies, Arvin walked on. He’d gotten no more than a few paces before a hand reached out of the shadow of a ramp to grasp his arm.

  A hand covered in fine green scales.

  “Zelia!” Arvin gulped as she stepped out into the street. “What a coincidence. I was just heading back to the tower to look for you.”

  Her lips crooked in a smile. “I can see that,” she said. “Obviously you have something to report, something important enough to have come in person, rather than using a sending.” She stared unblinkingly at him. “What have you learned?”

  Arvin thought furiously. What could he tell Zelia? “You were wrong about the flasks,” he began. “They don’t contain plague.”

  Zelia merely stared at him. “No?”

  “They contain a potion.”

  “What kind?”

  “One that transforms humans into yuan-ti. It comes from the Serpent Hills, possibly by way of Skullport. A contact of mine saw a flask similar to the ones the Pox carry, a few months ago in a potion seller’s shop. He tried to buy it, but before he could, it was purchased by a slaver.”

  “What was the slaver’s name?” Zelia hissed.

  “Ssarmn.”

  Zelia hissed thoughtfully. Apparently she recognized the name.

  “That’s all I’ve been able to learn so far,” Arvin concluded.

  “Is it?” Zelia asked.

  “Yes,” Arvin answered evenly. He stared at Zelia. The last thing he needed was for her to question him, to force him to tell her about the Extaminos connection to the Pox. If he did, he’d be a dead man. Deliberately, he forced Osran’s name out of his mind—but not quickly enough.

  Zelia’s eyes suddenly flashed silver. She gave a long, slow hiss. “Osran? I suspected there was a bad egg in the brood.”

  As she spoke the name aloud, Arvin felt a stabbing pain in his throat. Doubling over, he began to cough. Dark droplets flecked the ground; when he swallowed, he tasted blood. He felt a chill of fear course through him as he realized what was happening. The geas was taking hold, even though he hadn’t spoken the name aloud—hadn’t even intended for it to be overheard. He swallowed again, his throat raw. Hoar, he pleaded silently. I didn’t mean to. Please don’t kill me.

  Zelia didn’t even ask what was wrong with him. She just stood, smiling like a snake that had swallowed a mouse. Arvin, meanwhile, felt the pain in his throat ease—just a little. Then his coughing stopped. Hoar, it seemed, had heard his plea and spared him.

  Arvin touched the bead at his throat. “Nine lives,” he whispered. He followed it with a silent thank-you to Hoar.

  At least it was Middark. Tymora willing, the assassination would already have taken place and the Secession would be on their way out of the palace.

  “Zelia,” Arvin said, finding his voice again as the raw ache in his throat at last subsided. “I’ve given you what you wanted. Remove the mind seed. Get out of my head.”

  Zelia’s eyes blazed. “You dare make demands?” she hissed. “The seed will remain in place—at the very least, until I’ve had a chance to put a few questions to Osran.”

  Unbidden, an image flashed into Arvin’s mind. Of just what Zelia meant by “putting a few questions” to Osran. First she’d place a lock on his higher mind, causing a mental paralysis that would render him unable to take any physical actions. Then she’d slither into his mind. She’d poke and prod into the darkest crevices of his thoughts, finding his weaknesses and fears. One by one, she’d bring these into the light of full awareness. She’d nudge his helpless mind this way and that, forcing him to dwell upon that which most demoralized him, filling him to the brim with fear. Then, when she’d forced her victim to retreat into a tight coil of despair, she’d beat the last of his will down with her questions. What did it matter, she’d say, if he revealed his secrets to her? All was lost, hopeless, bleak. He was doomed. She was in control, not him.

  Arvin dwelled upon the image, gloating. It felt good to be the one in command. To savor the raw, weeping anguish of another that he so thoroughly dominated. He remembered the first time he’d ever used his psionic powers to reduce someone to sniveling helplessness—his former master. The master whose psionic powers Arvin had so easily surpassed. The human had proved as fragile as an egg when Arvin at last tired of toying with him….

  Arvin felt sweat trickle down his temples. He shivered, despite the warmth of the night air. He wrenched his mind back to the present, away from Zelia’s memory, and glanced around.

  Zelia was gone. Having gotten what she wanted from him, she’d slithered away into the night without another word.

  Arvin pressed his forehead against the stone wall next to him, savoring its coolness. It helped ease the throbbing of his headache. Through half-closed eyes, he saw the pale-green shimmer of residual magical energy the stones contained. The color matched the scales on Zelia’s skin—and reminded him that he could no more shed her than the stone could shed its luminescent glow. Nicco had been right. Arvin was doomed.

  No. He was thinking like one of Zelia’s victims. There was still hope if Tanju could be persuaded to help him. But how to make contact with the tracker? Tanju might be quartered at the militia barracks, or he might not. Being an auxiliary, rather than a regular member of the militia, might have its privileges. If Arvin tried to ask one of the militia where Tanju was, he would probably be mistaken for Gonthril again, and the chase would be on.

  And Tanju would be summoned to help track him.

  And if, in his flight to “escape,” Arvin swung through the section of the city that contained the palace, he might just draw enough of the militia away from it to enable Gonthril and the others to make their escape after the assassination attempt. And in the process, make amends to them for having let Osran’s name slip.

  Grinning, Arvin set off in the direction of the palace.

  25 Kythorn, Darkmorning

  Arvin clung, panting from his rapid climb, to the underside of a viaduct. In the street below, three members of the militia pounded past, never once thinking to glance up as they ran directly beneath his hiding spot. Escaping them had been too easy, he thought. Despite the hue and cry they’d raised after spotting “Gonthril,” they hadn’t called out their tracker. Tanju was nowhere in sight.

  This was getting ridiculous. Arvin had allowed himself to be seen in at least a dozen different locations, without success, and it was almost dawn. He’d have to find some other way to flush out Tanju.

  Climbing back down the pillar that supported the viaduct, Arvin jogged in the opposite direction the three militiamen had just taken. As he made his way up the winding street, he caught glimpses of the tower that rose high above the central courtyard of the royal palace. The tower was capped with an enormous statue of a cobra, its flared hood covered in overlapping scales that were said to be slabs of solid gold. The eyes of the statue—which flashed red in daylight, but which by night looked like dark, brooding pits in the golden head—were rumored to be chunks of ruby as large as a human heart. No r
ogue had ever climbed the tower to find out if that was true, however. Just getting into the palace compound was problem enough. The walls were protected by magical glyphs far more powerful—and deadly—than the one Arvin had fallen victim to in the Secession’s hiding place, and the grounds were patrolled by officers from the human militia. Assuming the rogue actually made it inside the palace, he would have to run a gauntlet of its yuan-ti guard: high-ranking clerics from the Cathedral of Emerald Scales.

  Arvin shook his head, wondering how Gonthril and the Secession had ever hoped to get that far. But even if they had failed in their mission, it wouldn’t matter. Zelia knew that Osran Extaminos was the backer behind the Pox. When she was finished with Osran, the cultists’ supply of transformative potion would be cut off, and Hlondeth’s citizens would be saved.

  Saved, of course, with the notable exception of Naulg, and the other poor wretches the Pox had already used for their experiments.

  Arvin, thanks to the mind seed, was equally doomed—unless he could find Tanju.

  If only Arvin had access to Zelia’s powers—and not just her emotions and memories—he might be able to search for Tanju using psionics. That would certainly improve his odds of finding the tracker. A simple sending would do….

  Slowing to a walk, Arvin hissed an oath. He reached into his pocket and pulled the lapis lazuli from its hiding place. Had he the means to find Tanju in his hands all this time—or rather, in his pocket? When Zelia had told him the lapis lazuli would allow him to manifest a sending, he’d assumed she meant that it would only allow him to contact her. But perhaps that was an incorrect assumption.

  He stared at the stone, trying to will the answer from the seed that was buried deep within his mind. It only took a moment before the answer bubbled to the surface: the stone could be used to manifest a sending … to anyone.