by Lisa Smedman
Arvin summoned his dagger into his glove and flattened himself against the wall beside the door. With his free hand, he reached into his pocket for the monkey's fist he'd used to waylay the satyr. A heartbeat later, the latch turned. The door eased open and a man started to back through it. Arvin recognized the fellow at once: the gaunt-faced rogue with the ice dagger who had waylaid him four days ago. The rogue was bent over, carrying something: an unconscious woman. A second man, still inside the room, held her feet. Even though both the room and hallway were in darkness, Arvin recognized their victim at once by her long hair and hugely pregnant belly.
Glisena. What in the Nine Hells was she doing here?
Arvin sprang forward, simultaneously slamming the hilt of his dagger into the temple of the rogue while hurling the monkey's fist in through the door at the second man. The intricate knot unraveled as it flew through the air, strands of it lashing the second man's arms against his sides. The skinny rogue, meanwhile, staggered sideways down the hall under the force of Arvin's blow. Both men dropped their burden at once; Glisena fell to the floor with a heavy thud.
There was no time to check if she was hurt. Arvin's blow had stunned the rogue instead of rendering him unconscious, and the second man-a beefy-looking fellow with a wind-reddened face and greasy hair-managed, despite his bonds, to twist up the loaded crossbow that hung from his belt. Arvin heard the trigger click and leaped aside from the doorway. The bolt snagged his cloak. The first rogue recovered and rushed down the hall, thrusting with his ice dagger. Arvin parried, and the point of the weapon scratched his left forearm. A shock of cold swept through his arm from his elbow to the tip of his abbreviated little finger. His hand went numb, and he dropped his dagger.
Greasy Hair was out of commission inside the room; the monkey's fist had wound its strands around his legs as well, and he'd fallen to the floor. But the first rogue had recovered enough to press home his attack. He feinted with his ice dagger, driving Arvin away from the weapon he'd just dropped. Arvin backed down the short hallway until the wall was at his back then put a deliberately worried look on his face.
The rogue lunged.
“Redditio!" Arvin cried, and his magical dagger flew up from the floor toward his ungloved hand. He caught it as the rogue completed his lunge; the ice dagger scored a line across Arvin's side as he twisted, tearing his shirt. Gasping from the sudden cold-it felt as though an ice- cold hand had clenched his guts-Arvin completed his twist and slammed his own weapon home. It sank to the hilt in the rogue's back.
The rogue went down. He fell to the floor, gurgling like a man whose lungs were filled with fever-fluid. Then he coughed a spray of blood. He wouldn't live long.
Arvin stood on the rogue's wrist and plucked the ice dagger out of his hand then glanced through the doorway at the second man. The fellow had strained against his magical bindings until the cords cut deep grooves into the flesh of his arms and legs, but the ensorcelled twine was holding.
Transferring both daggers to his gloved hand, Arvin touched his side. Crumbles of frozen blood came away from the wound, causing it to bleed slightly. Like the cut on his arm, it was no more than a scratch. "Nine lives," he whispered.
Inside the room, on the table, was a mug of ale. Arvin was tempted to take a hefty swallow but decided against it. He didn't want the rogues thinking his bravery needed a crutch. He glared down at the trussed man.
"It wasn't my idea," the fellow whined. He jerked his head at the rogue who lay dying in the hall. "Lewinn was the one who wanted to cut you out of the deal. He said we could keep the diamonds for ourselves. I said, `No, Lewinn, we should deal fairly with the mind mage,' but he wouldn't listen. He-"
"Shut up," Arvin said.
Greasy Hair did.
The wounded rogue exhaled one last, gurgling breath then was still. Arvin grabbed his ankles and dragged him inside the room. He eased the door shut-so far, the other occupants of the inn hadn't reacted to the sounds of the fight, and he wanted to keep it that way-then knelt beside Glisena. Her eyes were closed, but her chest rose and fell evenly. Arvin lightly patted her cheek and called her name, but she didn't wake up.
"What have you done to her?" Arvin asked.
"She's drugged," Greasy Hair answered. His voice matched the mental voice Arvin had listened in on earlier, when the skinny rogue had forced him into the cooper's workshop.
Arvin frowned down at Glisena. "How did-"
"It was Lewinn's idea," Greasy Hair interrupted. "He posed as the innkeeper and brought her the ale, and-"
"How did you know she was here?" Arvin asked, glad he'd resisted the urge to drink.
"Lewinn spotted her, looking out the window. That's how we knew you had her." Greasy Hair paused. A too-innocent expression appeared on his face. "Listen, mind mage, the diamonds are in my pocket. Untie me, and I'll give them to you. The diamonds for the girl, just like we agreed, and our dealings will be over. All right?"
Arvin ignored him. He stood, thinking. Doubtless it had happened just the way Greasy Hair described. But how had Glisena wound up in Karrell's room?
It was possible-though it bordered on the miraculous-that Zelia had found a way to spirit Glisena out of the palace in the time it had taken Arvin to walk back to the inn. Could she have found a way past the wards and plucked Glisena out from under the very eyes of nine powerful clerics-ten, counting Marasa-and a watchful baron?
Possible, but hardly likely.
Unless Karrell had been the one to get Glisena out.
Karrell looked human enough; maybe she'd fooled the wards. And she had access to the palace. She might have been able to charm the clerics, to steal Glisena away and bring her here, to the room at the inn.
Whatever was going on, Arvin needed to get Glisena out of here.
Scooping the mug of ale off the table, he grabbed the rogue's greasy hair and wrenched his head back. "Drink it," he growled.
Greasy Hair struggled to wrench his head aside. "The diamonds aren't really in my pocket," he gasped. "But I can get them for you. Let me-"
Arvin poured the ale down his throat.
The man sputtered then swallowed. His eyes glazed then rolled-and he went limp.
Arvin pricked the fellow's arm with his dagger: no response. Greasy Hair wasn't feigning unconsciousness. Arvin spoke the command word that re-knotted the monkey's fist and shoved it back in his pocket. Then he reached inside his shirt for the brooch the baron had given him. He pinned it to the front of the thin rogue's shirt, where it was sure to be spotted. That would give Naneth something to puzzle over, if she came to claim Glisena and found one of the "baron's men" dead on the floor, next to an unconscious rogue.
Arvin removed the ice dagger's sheath from the dead rogue's belt, slid the weapon into it, and tucked it into his boot. Then he bent down and carefully picked up Glisena.
She was lighter than he'd expected-and cooler; her body no longer radiated heat. The drug the rogues had tricked her into drinking must have dampened her fever. It also seemed to have quieted the demon. Glisena's bulging stomach pressed up against Arvin's; he could no longer feel the demon kicking.
Arvin crept down the stairs, Glisena in his arms. He eased open the door at the bottom and peered out into the street. The street was deserted, except for a lone figure far down the block, walking toward the inn. Something about the person made Arvin uneasy; a second glance told him he'd been right to trust his instincts. The person moved with a swaying motion that instantly told Arvin her race: yuan-ti.
Zelia.
And she was moving toward the inn. Had she spotted him?
Arvin closed the door and hurried in the only other direction available: through the inn's common room, which had closed for the night. With Glisena in his arms, he wound his way between the tables, toward the inn's front door. Once again he looked cautiously outside. This time the street was empty.
Arvin hurried up the street. As he ran, slipping on patches of slush, he activated the lapis lazuli and visualized the one p
erson he'd not yet contacted with it today who might be able to help: Marasa. Her face came into focus in his mind at once: drawn, worried-looking, and pale. Her left hand was raised, evoking Helm; her lips moved in prayer. Her eyes widened as a mental image of Arvin formed in her mind's eye.
Marasa, he thought, hailing her. I found Glisena. She's unconscious; I'm carrying her back to the palace from the Fairwinds Inn. Send help. Hurry!
Marasa's eyes widened in surprise. She glanced down then up at Arvin. That's not possible, she thought. Glisena's here. I've been by her side all… Suddenly, her expression grew wary. One last thought-only half- directed at Arvin, but it came through anyway-drifted through her mind: Is this a trick? Then the sending was broken.
Arvin slowed and stared down at the woman in his arms. Glisena was still at the palace? If this wasn't Glisena, who was it? He glanced around, spotted a sheltered doorway up the street, and stepped into it. With one hand, he undid the fastenings of his cloak, letting it fall to the ground. He spread it out with his foot then lowered the unconscious woman onto it. Then, closing his eyes so he could concentrate, he ran his fingertips across her face.
It took several moments of intense concentration for him to feel what was truly there. The face felt broader than Glisena's, and flatter. And the hair, when he ran it through his fingers, was wavy, not straight. And the ears…
Yes. There it was. The woman's left earlobe was pierced, the piercing filled with an earring of carved stone.
"Karrell," Arvin said in a stunned whisper.
She'd done an amazing job of transforming her appearance. She hadn't polymorphed herself-that would have fooled Arvin's fingers, as well as his eyes. She must have used some sort of illusion. He touched her hair a second time and felt what he'd expected: a gritty powder. Back in Hlondeth, one of the assassins who had commissioned a magical rope from Arvin had used a similar magical powder. By sprinkling a pinch of it on his head, he could change his appearance to that of anyone he liked. He'd actually gloated about how he'd used the powder to assume the appearance of a woman's husband then stabbed the woman in front of her own daughter. The husband had been charged with the crime-and executed in the pits with his daughter watching and cursing his name.
Arvin was glad he wasn't working for the Guild anymore.
He stared down at Karrell, shaking his head. Whatever game she'd been playing had been a dangerous one. The rogues had interrupted it, Tymora be praised.
Arvin idly scratched his forehead. The scab was starting to itch again.
His hand froze in mid-scratch as he realized it wasn't the wound. That tickling sensation was Naneth scrying on him.
And if she could see him, she could see Karrell. Who still looked like Glisena.
Arvin cursed his ill luck. Why had Naneth chosen this precise moment to scry on him? If she recognized the spot where he was crouching, she might appear at any moment.
He glanced wildly around. Just a short distance up the street, in the intersection, was one of the statues of Helm's gauntlet. Maybe, if he was quick enough…
Arvin scooped Karrell up and ran toward the gauntlet. Naneth's scrying ended when he was partway there. He scrambled up onto the dais and slapped his bare hand against the gauntlet. "Come on," he gasped, looking around for one of the clerics who was supposed to materialize when the gauntlet's protection was invoked. "Come on."
He heard a faint pop behind him: air being displaced as a person teleported. He turned, expecting to see one of the Eyes.
It was Naneth, standing perhaps a hundred paces away, beside the doorway Arvin had just bolted from.
Then Zelia appeared from around a corner, holding a piece of parchment in one hand.
With a sinking heart, Arvin recognized it as the drawing Karrell had made of him. The one he'd crumpled up, thrown into the fireplace, and forgotten.
Zelia had found it.
"Arvin," she said as she walked with slithering steps toward Arvin. "We meet again. You look unusually healthy… for a dead man." Laughter hissed softly from her lips.
No, not laughter. That hissing meant she was manifesting a power: a psionic attack. And Arvin had no energy left in his muladhara to counter it.
He tensed, but the mental agony he was bracing against didn't manifest. Then he realized that the gauntlet was protecting him. Zelia couldn't attack him. Not here.
He shifted Karrell in his arms so that her limp hand also touched the gauntlet. They were protected, for the moment, against spells. But if Naneth used a spell that wasn't directly hostile-if she got close enough to touch Karrell and teleport away with her, for example-they'd be in trouble.
"There you are," Zelia said to Naneth, gesturing at Arvin and Karrell. "The girl. As promised."
Naneth thanked her with a silent nod then walked briskly toward them.
A second faint pop sounded, right next to Arvin. Relief swept through him as he saw the newcomer's red cloak and brightly polished breastplate, emblazoned with the eye of Helm.
"The baron's daughter!" Arvin gasped, shifting Karrell so the cleric could see her face. "She's in danger."
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Naneth break into a run. For a large woman, she moved surprisingly fast. "Detain that man!" she screamed. "He's an agent of Chondath. He's kidnapping the baron's daughter."
The cleric frowned then raised his gauntlet, turning the eye on its palm toward Arvin.
Arvin answered the question before the cleric even asked it. "I serve Lord Foesmasher," he said. As he spoke, a tingle swept through him: the gauntlet's truth- enforcing magic. He jerked his head at Naneth. "That woman's a sorcerer-an enemy of Foesmasher."
Naneth's hands were up, her fingers weaving a spell.
"Teleport us to the palace," Arvin shouted. "Now!" The cleric had been summoning his weapon-a mace-shaped glow that had half-materialized in his fist. The glow vanished, and he clamped a hand on Arvin's wrist.
As he did, Naneth completed her spell. In the area next to the dais, up suddenly became down. Arvin fell into the air, legs flailing. Karrell tumbled from his arms. The cleric was still holding onto Arvin's wrist and was praying-a prayer Arvin recognized, though he'd heard it only once before, when the yuan-ti ambassador had been teleported away by the clerics in Mimph.
"Wait!" Arvin shouted. With his free hand, he twisted violently, trying to catch Karrell. He caught hold of her ankle as he had a dizzying glimpse of Naneth on the dais below, casting another spell while Zelia hissed furiously, manifesting a power.
Tendrils of thought wiggled their way into his mind like tiny serpents. Hissing, they slithered through his mind, tearing with their fangs at his thoughts. He felt his mind begin to fray, and with each strand that parted, his body became weaker. One leg went limp, his left arm suddenly stopped responding to his thoughts, his head lolled back on a weakened neck-and the fingers of his right hand, the one that was gripping Karrell's ankle, grew limp as severed strings. He tried to keep hold of her, but felt his fingers slipping, slipping…
Naneth gloated up at him, reaching for Karrell with her pudgy fingers, while Zelia hissed with laughter.
"No," Arvin gasped. With his last bit of strength, he forced his thumb and one finger to close around Karrell's ankle-just as Zelia hit him with a massive thrust of psionic energy that smashed into his mind like a fist. Reeling, still falling upward, he caught a glimpse of her savoring his defeat with her forked tongue.
And the street vanished as the cleric teleported Arvin away.
Arvin groaned and rolled over. He ached in several places, there were sharp pains in his side and along his left arm, and his mind felt as though it were full of holes-the aftermath of Zelia's psionic attack.
The memory jolted him fully awake.
Karrell! Had sheHe looked wildly around. He was in the same chapel in which he had spoken to Foesmasher two nights ago-inside the palace. Relief rushed through him as he spotted Karrell farther along the bench he was lying on, just beyond his feet. The effects of the magical powder
had worn off; she looked like herself again. She'd been teleported back with him. She was safe.
He touched the crystal at his neck. "Nine lives," he whispered. He glanced around, but saw they were alone in the room. Oddly, the cleric who had teleported them here had just left them. Or perhaps it was not so odd, given the events that were unfolding elsewhere in the palace. Arvin wondered if Glisena had given birth yet.
Karrell's chin was on her chest, her body slumped with exhaustion. She seemed to be sleeping, albeit restlessly. Her fingers twitched, as if plucking at something. Then she groaned in her sleep.
Fear swept through Arvin then, chilling him like an icy wind. Was Karrell having a nightmare-one drawn from the dark pit of Zelia's memories? Fingers trembling, he nudged her awake.
Karrell's eyes flew open. "Arvin! You have recovered. The cleric assured me you would, but I was worried, even so. He told me that I had been drugged, that Naneth had attacked you and-"
Arvin pulled her closer to him and anxiously ran his fingers over her temples, her hair, searching for traces of ectoplasm. He found none, but that meant nothing. If she had been seeded, it had been done some time ago.
"What are you doing?" Karrell asked.
"Did you meet with Zelia?"
Karrell pulled away, a wary expression on her face. "I said nothing that would give you away. My ring prevented her from learning about you."
"That doesn't matter-not now," Arvin said. He laughed bitterly. "Zelia knows I'm alive. She showed up at the inn, just as I was carrying you out. She saw me." He winced and rubbed his aching head. "She nearly killed me."
Karrell glanced away. She was silent for several moments. "I am sorry," she said at last.
'Sorry' isn't going to help me now," Arvin said. He shook his head. "What in the Abyss were you thinking?"
Karrell met his eye. "That Zelia might know where Sibyl is hiding. And I was right. She-"
