Viper's kiss hos-2

by Lisa Smedman

  "No, but-"

  "Then it must have been someone else who needed the midwife's ministrations. Some other girl. Glisena is no longer with child."

  "Yes, she is, Lord Foesmasher," Arvin said quietly. "Naneth didn't do as you ordered. She tricked you." Choosing his words carefully, he summed up what the visions had shown him-both in Glisena's chamber and at Naneth's house. He omitted any mention of the warning he'd given the midwife.

  "When you charged into Naneth's home, she must have realized you'd learned of her treachery," Arvin concluded. "She teleported away."

  "Gods willing, she'll have gone to wherever Glisena is," the baron said. His forehead puckered with worry. "I shudder to think of my daughter alone in the forest, giving birth in some dirt-floored shack with only satyrs to aid her. At least some good has come of my actions: I sped the midwife on her way."

  "That… would not be a good thing," Arvin said.

  "What do you mean?" the baron asked sharply.

  Arvin took a deep breath then gave the baron the bad news. Naneth wasn't just a midwife. She served one of Lady Dediana's enemies-Sibyl. The yuan-ti abomination must be hoping to use Glisena's child as a playing piece in her bid for Hlondeth's throne. Once she had the child in hand…

  The baron's eyes widened. "After the child has been born, Glisena is no longer of any value to them," he said in a strained voice. "She will be… disposed of."

  "There may still be hope," Arvin said. "The satyr said the child hadn't been born yet. Until Glisena gives birth, Naneth won't harm her. Sibyl wants this baby. And once the baby is born, they will need Glisena to nurse the child." He paused. "Have your clerics found any trace of Naneth yet?"

  The baron shook his head. "She has shielded herself, it seems, with the same magic that is preventing us from finding my daughter." He sighed. "It all hinges, now, on finding the satyr."

  That was when things had become awkward. Foe- smasher had demanded that Arvin use his psionics to find the satyr, and Arvin had been forced to do some quick talking. He'd drained his energies, he told the baron. He needed to sleep, then to meditate, before he could manifest any more powers. Like a wizard consulting his spellbook, or a cleric praying to her god, he needed to restore his magic.

  Grudgingly, the baron had agreed to the delay. Marasa and her clerics would search for the satyr while Arvin rested.

  If only the dorje Tanju had given Arvin hadn't broken, finding the satyr would have been an easy matter, Arvin thought. Without it, he would be forced to rely on his own, limited, powers. The only one he had that might be of use was one that gave him an inkling of whether a given course of action was good or bad. By manifesting it, he might get a sense of whether it would be better to search this section of the city or that one for the satyr. But the inklings weren't always accurate, and the power could be manifested only so many times. And now it was morning, and his meditations were over-and the baron would expect him to perform a miracle.

  Hunger grumbled in his stomach, reminding him that he hadn't eaten yet. He should get dressed and find some food. He lifted his belt from the rack that held wooden practice swords and buckled it around his waist, adjusting it so his dagger was snug at the small of his back. His trousers and shirt were draped over one of the battered wooden posts that served as man-sized targets; his boots lay on the floor nearby. He dressed then crossed the room to a table on which stood a bowl of cold water. He splashed some of it onto his hair, combing it away from his eyes with his fingers. He flexed his left hand-his abbreviated little finger always ached in cold weather-then pulled on his magical glove. Then, just to see if he could do it, he drew his dagger, closed his eyes, and suddenly spun and threw the weapon, relying on memory to guide his aim. He heard a thunk and a creaking noise and opened his eyes. The arm of the quintain was rotating slowly, the dagger stuck fast in the center of the small wooden shield that hung from one end of it. Arvin smiled.

  Applause echoed from above. Glancing up, Arvin saw the baron standing on the spectator's gallery that ran along one side of the practice hall. He had entered it silently, his footsteps muffled by the gallery's thick carpet. Arvin wondered how long he'd been standing there. The baron had changed into fresh clothes, but his eyes were puffy; he hadn't slept. A sword was at his hip, and he was wearing his helmet. Its purple plume swayed as he descended the stairs to the floor of the practice room.

  "The satyr has been found," Foesmasher announced.

  "Excellent!" Arvin exclaimed, relieved. "If we ask the right questions, his thoughts will tell us where…" Belatedly, he noticed that the baron's lips were pressed together in a grim line. "What's wrong?"

  "When I received your warning last night, I ordered the city's gates sealed," Foesmasher said. "The Eyes began a block-by-block search of Ormpetarr; their spells flushed the satyr out a short time ago. He scaled the city wall. One of my soldiers gave chase along the battlements. The satyr slipped and fell to his death." "That's terrible news," Arvin said.

  "Yes. The soldier responsible has been punished."

  Hearing the grim tone in Foesmasher's voice, Arvin cringed, thankful he hadn't been the one to cause the satyr's death. He didn't want to ask what had been done to the soldier; his imagination already painted a vivid enough picture.

  The baron walked over to the quintain and pulled Arvin's dagger from it. "You've rested and replenished your magic." It was a statement rather than a question. -

  Arvin gave what he hoped was a confident-looking nod.

  "What will you do next?"

  Arvin was wondering that, himself. Even with the dorje intact, he might not have been able to locate Glisena. Whatever was preventing her from being located by wizardry and clerical magic might very well block psionics, as well. There was one person, however, who wasn't shielded by magic.

  "I'm going to pay a visit to Ambassador Extaminos," Arvin told the baron.

  Foesmasher frowned. "To what end?"

  "It's possible that Sibyl plans to use the child as a means to force Dmetrio to do her bidding," Arvin explained. "Demands may already have been made- and if they have, and it's Naneth who's making them, Dmetrio may be our way of finding her. And through her, Glisena."

  "Excellent," the baron said. "Let's go there at once. If he doesn't tell us what we want to know-"

  "That might not be such a good idea, Lord Foe- smasher," Arvin said in a careful voice. "Your presence might… agitate the ambassador. And an agitated mind will be harder for my psionics to penetrate. The best

  chance we have of learning more is if I meet with the ambassador alone."

  The baron toyed with Arvin's dagger, considering this. "Was it mind magic that allowed you to find the target with your eyes closed," he asked, testing the dagger's balance, "or the magic of this dagger?"

  "Neither," Arvin said, surprised by the change of subject. "I've worked as a net weaver and rope maker since the age of six. It makes for nimble fingers-you learn to be quick with a knife. Target practice does the rest."

  The baron handed him the dagger. "Helm grant that the questions you put to Ambassador Extaminos also find their mark."

  Arvin paced impatiently in the reception hall, angry at having been kept waiting an entire morning. Dmetrio's house slaves had provided him with wine and food-roasted red beetles the size of his fist, pre-cracked and drizzled with herbed butter-but Arvin waved away the yuan-ti delicacy. He'd already blunted the worst of his hunger at the palace and was too restless to eat. He ignored the smooth stone platform the slaves urged him to recline on and instead paced back and forth across the tiled floor, staring at the locked door of the basking room. At last it opened and a slave, bent nearly double under the weight of the jug of oil he carried, stepped through. Arvin strode toward the door.

  "Wait!" the slave cried through the scarf that covered his mouth. "There's osssra inside. You mustn't go in there!"

  "Too late," Arvin muttered as he pushed past the slave. "I'm already in."

  The air in the basking room was thick wit
h smoke that smelled like a combination of mint tea, singed moss, and burning sap. It hit Arvin's nostrils like a slap across the face, leaving them watering. As he breathed in the smoke, the room swayed and his legs began to tremble. He staggered, catching himself on one of the pillars that held up the domed ceiling. He clung to it, shaking his head, fighting the waves of dizziness.

  A low chuckle helped him focus. Still clutching at the pillar, he turned toward the sound.

  Dmetrio Extaminos lay in a shallow pool in the floor a few paces away. His naked, scaled body was coiled under him; it gleamed from the oil that filled the pool. His upper torso rose from it, bending back like a snake's. He looked up at Arvin with a languid expression, slit eyes wide and staring, his dark hair slicked back from his high forehead. A forked tongue flickered out of his mouth, tasting the smoke-filled air.

  "Ah," he said. "The rope merchant's agent. Are you really here… or just part of my dream?"

  Smoke drifted slowly from the half dozen lidded pots that surrounded the pool, drawing Arvin's eye. He watched, fascinated, as amber-colored tendrils twisted toward the ceiling. Only when he heard the slither of Dmetrio shifting position was he able to wrench his eyes away from the smoke. He shook his head violently, trying to concentrate. The smoke, he thought. He should have listened to the servant's warning. He tried to manifest the power that would allow him to overhear Dmetrio's thoughts, but his own thoughts were too sluggish; they drifted like the smoke. A glint of silver sparked in his vision then was gone.

  "Ambassador Extaminos," he said thickly, his words slurred. "Glisena is in danger. Her child-"

  "What child?"

  "The one you fathered," Arvin continued. "The midwife, she…" He paused, blinking slowly. What was it he'd wanted to ask?

  "Glisena is pregnant?" Dmetrio asked. A slow hiss of laughter escaped from his lips.

  Arvin tried to shake a finger at him and nearly fell over. "She's also missing," he said when he'd righted himself. "She's been kidnapped."

  "So?" Dmetrio curled into a new position in the oil, his scales leaving glistening streaks on the tiled edges of the pool.

  "Do you know where she is?"

  Dmetrio slowly arched his neck, stretching it. Oil trickled down one cheek. "No. I don't. Nor do I care."

  "She's with child. Your child," Arvin protested. "She might die."

  "Human women die in childbirth all the time," Dmetrio said. "Bearing live young is messy. Laying eggs is a much more efficient way of doing things." He rolled over in the oil, coating his scales with it. "Glisena has grown tiresome. I'll be glad to be away from here."

  Arvin let go of the pillar. He meant to take a step toward Dmetrio, but he reeled sideways. "But the child," he said. "You must care about…" His mind wandered. It was getting more difficult to concentrate by the moment. His thoughts were like bugs, caught in sap and struggling to get free. The smoke… His gaze drifted up to the ceiling again. He wrenched his mind back.

  "But the child," Arvin repeated. "Won't you take it… with you?"

  Dmetrio let out a loud hiss of laughter. "Why would I want to do that?"

  "Because it's your child. You can't just abandon-"

  Dmetrio waved a hand. Someone seized Arvin's arms from behind-two someones, wearing armor and helmets flared like cobra hoods. "Rillis?" Arvin asked, peering at them through the smoke.

  Neither was the guard Arvin had bribed for information the day before. They dragged him backward out of the basking room. A servant-the one who'd

  been carrying the jar of oil-closed and relocked the door behind them. Arvin found himself being dragged through the reception hall, down a corridor, out a door, and down a snow-covered ramp. His heels skidded through the snow, leaving two drag marks. He stared at them, fascinated. They were like the trails left by snakes. If he moved his feet from side to side, they slithered…

  A gate creaked open and the militiamen lifted him up. Then he was floating through the air. No, not floating… he'd been thrown, tossed out by the militiamen. He landed on his back in the snowy street. As people drifted past him, shrinking back from the spot where he lay, he stared, intrigued, at the snowflakes falling out of the sky. He watched them while the snow soaked through his cloak, trousers, and shirt. They started off so small and got so big. Like that one… it was huge.

  No, that wasn't a snowflake. It was a woman's face, looking down at him. She had dark eyes, wide cheekbones, and black, wavy hair that reached toward him like snakes.

  Heart pounding, Arvin tried to crawl backward through the snow, to escape the snakes. Then he spotted the frog hiding behind them. The notion of a frog sitting on a woman's earlobe seemed so silly, somehow, that he had to laugh. It came out like a croak.

  "Vin?" the woman asked. "Are you all right?"

  Arvin stared dreamily up at Karrell for several moments, tracing the curve of her lips with his eyes. He tried to raise a hand to touch them, but his arm flopped into the snow above his head. He needed to tell her something that he'd breathed in something called osssra-but his lips wouldn't form the word. "Sssraaa," he slurred.

  Karrell bent down and lifted his arm from the snow. "Vin," she said, her voice low and serious. "You need help. Please try to stand."

  His arm drifted up around her shoulder, and his legs were scrabbling under him, messing up the snow. Yanked along the street by Karrell, he stumbled after her, staring at the pattern his feet made, oblivious to the people staring at them. There were so many footsteps… and not a one of them from a satyr's cloven hoof.

  Why that mattered, he couldn't say.

  Arvin sat up, rubbing his head. His mind was his own again, but his head ached, and he felt shaky; it was difficult to coordinate his movements. He took it slow, swinging first one leg, then the other, off the side of the bed. When he stood, his legs trembled. He was naked, save for his breeches and the braided leather bracelet around his right wrist. And-he touched the crystal that hung at his throat-the now-depleted power stone his mother had given him, all those years ago.

  He was in a small, simply furnished room with a door and one window. Through the shutters he could see that the snow had at last stopped falling; the street was three stories below. It was dark and a horn was sounding elsewhere in the city, signaling the evening prayer. He must have been unconscious for some time.

  The room's furnishings included a bed, a narrow wardrobe by the fire, and a wooden table and chair. He was relieved to see his belt hanging on the back of the chair, his dagger still in its sheath. His magical glove lay on the table, next to a drawing of his sleeping face, rendered in charcoal on parchment. It was an amazingly good likeness; Karrell must have drawn it. A fire burned in the grate; his damp clothes and cloak hung, steaming slightly, on the fire screen in front of it. Noise wafted up from somewhere below-the overlapping sounds of voices, a stringed instrument, and the clatter of crockery. With it came the smell of food, a mouthwatering blend of stew and baking bread. Arvin's stomach growled.

  He walked toward the fire-slowly, so he wouldn't stumble-and searched the pocket of his shirt. Inside the false seam was a familiar bulge: the lapis lazuli. Pulling it out, he affixed it to his forehead and tried to concentrate on Tanju, but the psion's face kept slipping out of focus. Realizing he was simply too tired to manifest a sending, Arvin removed the lapis lazuli and tucked it back inside his pocket. He'd contact Tanju later. All he really had to report, anyway, was that Dmetrio wasn't involved in Glisena's disappearance.

  As he was making his way back to the bed, the door opened. Karrell came in, carrying a platter on which stood a bowl of stew, some bread, and a mug of ale. She set the platter down on the table then took Arvin's arm, guiding him toward the table. "You're still unwell," she said. "You should rest."

  Arvin sank into the chair. "How long have I been here?" The savory odors of carrots, potatoes, and beef rose to his nostrils. He licked his lips and picked up a spoon from the platter. "And where am I?"

  "I found you at midday, outside the ambassado
r's residence," Karrell answered, closing the door. "You are at the Fair winds Inn, a short distance from there."

  Arvin nodded and tore a chunk off the bread, following it up with some stew. As the flavors washed over his tongue, he closed his eyes and sighed. He took a drink of ale then tucked into the stew in earnest. "Thanks," he said, nodding at the bowl. "And thanks for helping me."

  "You were fortunate," Karrell said. "Osssra can be fatal to humans."

  "What is it?"

  Karrell walked to the fire screen and lifted Arvin's cloak from it, turning it so the other side was to the heat. "Osssra are oils," she told him over her shoulder.

  "When burned, they have special properties. Some osssra clear the mind, while others heal the body. Some purge enchantments, while still others-like the one whose odor lingers on your hair and skin-stimulate dreams and memories."

  "The only thing it stimulated in me was dizziness," Arvin said, talking around a mouthful of bread. The food was helping; he was starting to feel better already. "It made me as stupid as a slug."

  "Be thankful it only enfeebled your mind. Some osssra are fatal to humans. They are intended for yuan-ti."

  "You know a lot about these magical oils," Arvin noted between spoonfuls of stew.

  Karrell shrugged and continued turning his clothing. "You came from the direction of the palace. Did you manage an audience with the baron, after all?"

  "You were watching the ambassador's residence, weren't you?" Arvin asked between mouthfuls of food.

  "Yes," she admitted. "Was he just as rude as before?"

  Arvin's fist tightened on the spoon. "Worse. He's an arrogant, unfeeling bastard. Just like all the rest of-"

  Karrell's eyes narrowed. "All the rest of what?" Arvin shrugged. He might as well say it. This wasn't Hlondeth; he could say what he liked.

  "House Extant i nos."

  "Ah." Karrell walked back across the room and sank onto the bed-the only other place to sit. She toyed with the collar of her dress, which was white and hemmed with intricate turquoise embroidery. The dress was made from a soft, thin fabric unsuited to a winter climate, a fabric that hugged her breasts. She tossed her hair with a flick of her head, revealing her jade earplug and the soft curve of her jaw and throat. Arvin found himself losing interest in his food. He really was