by Lisa Smedman
LOVE CHILD OF THE SERPENT PRINCE
The satyr opened the door of the hut–an untanned hide hung from crude wooden pegs–and motioned for Arvin to enter. Arvin stepped inside and felt excitement course through him as he spotted the object of his search.
Glisena lay on a sheepskin near a fire pit. She stared up at the ceiling, hands on her enormous belly, her long hair damp with sweat. Even over the smell of wood smoke, Arvin caught the odor of sickness; a fly circled lazily in the air above her head. Glisena still wore the dress she’d had on when she used Naneth’s ring to teleport away from the palace; her winter cloak and boots lay in a heap against the far wall. Through the fabric of the dress, Arvin saw Glisena’s stomach bulge momentarily: the baby kicking. Glisena gave a faint groan.
At least mother and baby were both alive.
Arvin should have felt elation. Instead he felt sadness and a grim sense of foreboding.
The satyr gave Arvin a shove from behind. “Heal her.”
Serve the House of Serpents
House of Serpents
Lisa Smedman
Book I
Venom’s Taste
Book II
Viper’s Kiss
Book III
Vanity’s Brood
Also by Lisa Smedman
R.A. Salvatore’s War of the Spider Queen, Book IV
Extinction
Sembia
Heirs of Prophecy
PROLOGUE
The man on the ship’s fo’c’sle would have gone unnoticed in other circumstances. Of average build and height, and with dark, shoulder-length hair drawn into a knot at the back of his neck like a sailor’s tarred bun, he would have blended into any crowd. His ornaments were few: a slim chunk of clear crystal hanging on a leather thong at his neck; a bracelet of braided leather around his right wrist; and a thumbnail-sized dark blue stone, flecked with gold, that he wore on his forehead in the spot where the Learned painted their marks.
Two things, however, made him remarkable. The first was his pose. He lay facedown, his rigid arms holding his upper torso away from the wet fo’c’sle deck, his head bent back so that he appeared to be looking straight up at the spot where six sailors toiled above him, reefing the foresail. The second was the fact that he was unclothed, save for his tight-fitting breeches and a black leather glove on his left hand.
Unclothed—on a gusty, open deck in a winter far colder than was usual for the Vilhon Reach—the man seemed oblivious to the brisk wind that blew a spray so chilling that the sailors above worked with clumsy, cold-stiff fingers as they hauled up the canvas sail. He’d been there since dawn first paled the sky, unmoving, unblinking. And not shivering, even though the sun was only now just starting to shine on the gray waters of the Reach.
As the sun crested the horizon, limning the ship in a faint winter light, the man at last moved. He did not so much rise from the deck as flow up into a crouch, then into a standing position. A series of poses followed, joined one to the next like the steps of a flowing dance. The man moved as sinuously as a snake, even though he was human, without a hint of yuan-ti about him. The pupils of his dark brown eyes were round and his skin was smooth and not patterned. When he assumed the final pose, standing on one foot and staring up at the sky through hands that were slowly coming together, as if crushing something between them, the teeth that showed as he grimaced were square and white. Slowly, he lowered his foot to the deck and his arms returned to his sides. Then, his exercises complete, he reached for his shirt.
A wave caused the ship to roll. The man steadied himself by grabbing one of the rope ladders that led up to the mast. Suddenly his smile disappeared. His gaze became unfocused, as if he were staring out at something on the distant horizon. A moment later, he blinked. “The hemp in one of the ratlines is rotten,” he called up to the sailors. “If you don’t replace it, one of you will die.”
He spoke with such certainty that the sailors above shivered. One of them began to whisper a prayer.
The man below dressed himself, pulling on his trousers, shirt, and boots, and belting on a knife so that its sheath was snug against the small of his back. Then, rubbing himself briskly and at last shivering, he strode along the rolling deck and disappeared down the hatch that led to the passengers’ cabins.
CHAPTER 1
Arvin leaned on the ship’s rail, staring across the waters of the broad bay the ship had just entered. Ahead lay the city of Mimph. Like Hlondeth, it was a port, its harbor crowded so thickly with ships that their masts resembled the bare trees of a winter forest. But there the resemblance ended. Hlondeth had been built by serpents—it was a city of round towers, gracefully arcing viaducts, and ramps that led to rounded doorways reminiscent of the entrance to a snake’s burrow. The buildings of Mimph, in contrast, were squat, blocky, and square. The city was a series of sharp angles and edges, from its square windows and doors to the jagged-looking flights of stairs that led up from the piers that lined the waterfront. Where Hlondeth’s buildings were of green stone that glowed by night with the residual energies of the magic used to shape them, Mimph’s structures were of plain gray granite that had been hewn by hand.
By human hands.
As the ship sailed slowly into the harbor, making its way between the dozens of ships already at anchor, the only other passenger aboard her joined Arvin at the rail. He tasted the air with a flickering, forked tongue then gave a slight sniff. “Humans,” he hissed under his breath.
Arvin glanced sideways at the other passenger—a yuan-ti half-breed with a distinctive diamond pattern on the scales of his face. The yuan-ti’s head was bald and more snakelike than human, and his lower torso ended in a serpent’s tail. He wore an expensive looking winter cloak, trimmed with white ermine fur, that draped all but the tip of his tightly coiled tail. He hugged a stove-warmed stone to his belly; his breath, unlike Arvin’s, didn’t fog in the winter air. His unblinking, slit-pupil eyes stared with open distaste at the city as he sluggishly turned his head to stare at it.
“How they stink,” he hissed, completing his thought.
Arvin’s eyes narrowed. He smelled nothing but clean sea air, wet canvas and hemp, and the tang of freshly cut pine drifting over the water from the dockyards, where dozens of naval vessels were being constructed to counter the threat from neighboring Chondath. Arvin said nothing, even though the yuan-ti’s remark was designed to goad him. He was the only human aboard this ship who was not a slave; the sailors who toiled above, calling to one another as they furled the sails, all had an S brand on their left cheek. The yuan-ti obviously couldn’t resist an opportunity to remind the one free human about his place in the world.
Arvin smiled. Enjoy it while you can, he thought. Here in the Barony of Sespech, it’s the humans who run things.
Foremost among those humans was Baron Thuragar Foesmasher, the man who had wrested control of Sespech away from its former baron—a Chondathan lackey—nine years ago. The barony was now fully independent, a rising star among the states that lined the Vilhon Reach. It was a place where a man with the right skills and talent could go far.
Arvin, with his psionic talents, was just such a man. And this trip was going to give him the opportunity to prove himself to no less a person than the baron himself.
Six days ago, the baron’s daughter Glisena, a headstrong young woman of eighteen years, had gone missing from the palace at Ormpetarr. The baron’s spellcasters had been unable to find her; their clerical magic had failed to reveal even a hint of where she might have gone. With each passing day the baron’s fears had increased. There had been no ransom demand, no boastful threats from his political enemies. Glisena had just … vanished.
Desperate, Baron Foesmasher had turned to his yuan-ti allies. Lady Dediana’s militia,
he knew, included a tracker said to be the best in all of the Vilhon Reach, a man with an extremely rare form of magic. Perhaps this “mind magic” could succeed where the other spellcasters had failed.
That tracker was Tanju, the psion who was Arvin’s mentor.
Lady Dediana, however, was loath to loan Tanju to Baron Foesmasher. There was pressing business within Hlondeth for him to attend to, and he couldn’t be spared. Yet a failure to respond to Baron Foesmasher’s plea might fray the alliance that had recently been woven between the two states.
Tanju had proposed the solution. In recent months, he told Lady Dediana, he’d taken on an “apprentice,” one with a quick mind and immense natural talent. This apprentice, he assured her, could do the job. Delighted at being presented with a solution that would swallow two birds in a single gulp, as the old expression went, Lady Dediana had readily agreed. And so, early yesterday morning, Arvin had set sail for Sespech.
If all went well, he’d never have to return to Hlondeth. Tanju had agreed that, when the job was done—assuming the baron approved—Arvin could remain in Sespech. From time to time, Tanju might contact him and ask for information on the barony, but otherwise, Arvin would be his own master.
Staying on in Sespech suited Arvin just fine. After months of constantly looking over his shoulder, wondering if Zelia was going to suddenly appear, he could at last relax. He felt more at ease already than he had since last summer, when the yuan-ti psion had tried to take over his body with a mind seed. Arvin had narrowly defeated her by planting a false memory of his own death in her mind. In order to maintain that deception, he’d had to remain in hiding since that time. It hadn’t been easy.
A light snow began to fall. The yuan-ti beside him hissed once more, tasted a snowflake with a flicker of his tongue, and slithered back to the passengers’ quarters. Arvin watched him go, wondering what urgent business had stirred the yuan-ti out of his winter torpor and sent him south across the Reach. This winter was colder than any Arvin could remember, and yet the yuan-ti were more energetic than ever. They seemed … restless.
As the ship drew closer to the spot where it was to unload its cargo of wine, sailors scrambled down to the deck where Arvin waited and stood ready with heaving lines. The gap between the ship and the pier narrowed and the sailors whirled the lines—each weighted at the end by a large “monkey fist” knot—above their heads. At the captain’s order they let fly, and the lines, looking like white streamers, arced toward the pier. They were caught by dock workers, who hauled them in rapidly hand over hand, drawing toward them the thicker ropes to which the heaving lines were tied, then looping these over bollards on the pier. The sailors, meanwhile, scrambled to the ship’s two capstans and grasped the wooden arms. The ship jerked abruptly to a halt as the mooring lines pulled tight then gradually, as the capstans were turned with rumbling squeals, was drawn closer to the pier.
The hull snugged up against the large, ball-shaped fenders of woven rope that hung against the pier to protect the ship from scraping. One of the fenders tore apart with a wet ripping sound, and Arvin snorted disdainfully. Whoever had made it must have used substandard materials. Not only that, but the weave was sloppy and uneven.
He waited patiently while the ship was secured. Unlike the yuan-ti—who was lethargically directing the sailors hauling his numerous heavy trunks up onto the deck—Arvin was traveling light. A single backpack held his clothing, travel gear, and the handful of magical items he’d been able to make for himself without the Guild finding out about them. Collecting these from their various caches throughout the city had been tricky. If anyone in the Guild had realized that Arvin was thinking about leaving Hlondeth for good, the Guild would have seen to it that he was stopped. He owed them an enormous debt; it had been the Guild that had helped him hide from Zelia these past six months. And Arvin was a valuable resource—a source of magical ropes and nets at mere coppers on the gold piece. Too valuable to ever be let go. If they found out he was planning on running, they’d make sure he’d never do it again. They’d probably lop off a foot, this time.
He sighed and adjusted his pack into a more comfortable position on his shoulders. Inside it, carefully wrapped in cloth against breakage, was a magical item Tanju had given him—a crystalline wand called a dorje. Made from a length of clear quartz as narrow as Arvin’s forefinger and twice as long, it pulsed with a soft purple light: the psionic energies Tanju had charged it with. Using it, Arvin would be able to view Glisena—and her current surroundings—as if he were standing next to her. All he need do was touch the dorje to something that had once been close to her. A dress she had worn or, better yet, a hairbrush with a strand of her hair in its bristles.
Once Glisena was located and returned home again, Arvin would, no doubt, be rewarded by a grateful baron. Coin would be involved. Much coin, since Baron Foesmasher was known to be a generous man. Arvin would use the coin to set up shop in Sespech—an independent shop, not one controlled by the Guild. He would at long last reap the full profits of his magical rope making and net weaving, without the Guild dipping a hand in the purse. He’d make a new home for himself far away from the demands of the Guild, the reminders of his years in the orphanage—and the constant slithering hiss of the City of Serpents.
When the ship was secure, one of the ship’s officers—a muscular fellow whose braided beard hid most of the slave brand on his cheek—shouted directions. The other sailors unfastened the hatches and swung a crane into place, preparing to unload the barrels that filled the hold. Another officer—this one a yuan-ti with patches of yellow scales on his cheeks and forehead, slithered over to the rail and coiled himself there. He watched the crew with unblinking eyes, one hand gripping a wand whose tip was set with a hollow snake fang. The slaves glanced nervously at him over their shoulders as they worked. The yuan-ti officer did not speak, but his message was clear. Any human seeking his freedom ashore would meet a swift end.
Arvin ignored the yuan-ti officer, taking in the people on the pier instead. The dock workers all appeared to be free men—many were bearded, an affectation that was forbidden to all but the most trusted slaves. Four teenage boys stood on the pier next to them, jostling each other and waving up at the ship, trying to catch the eyes of its passengers. Their voices overlapped as they shouted up to those on deck.
“Come to the Bluefish Inn! Good food, good ale.”
“Clean rooms, just five silver pieces a night at the Travelers’ Rest!”
“Hey, Mister! Let me show you the way to the Tangled Net Tavern. It’s close by.”
“Cheap rooms! Cheap rooms at the Silver Sail.”
A handful of women were also present. One walked behind a boy who trundled a wheelbarrow laden with a steaming pot of dark red liquid, a ladle in her hand. “Hot mulled wine!” she called. “Sweet and hot, six coppers a cup.” The half dozen other women were all doxies in low-cut dresses that were too thin for the winter air, strolling back and forth across the pier in an effort to keep warm.
Arvin’s eyes were immediately drawn to one of the doxies, a woman with high cheekbones and dark hair that fell in a long braid down her back. She was pretty, but what had caught his eye was the gesture she just used. She’d raised a hand to her face, pretending to rub her eyes with fingers that were spread in a V. As Arvin watched, she lowered her hand, rubbing her fingers against her thumb, then pointed at the ship on which Arvin stood, directing someone’s attention toward its passengers.
Arvin nodded. So Mimph had a rogues’ guild as well, did it? He supposed that was only to be expected. He glanced around the pier and easily spotted the weedy-looking boy lounging a short distance down the pier. The boy—who looked about fourteen, the age Arvin had been when he found himself on the streets and was forced to steal to survive—acknowledged the doxy with a quick nod of his right fist, then began making his way toward the ship.
Arvin was glad it wasn’t the doxy who would be attempting the grab. That was how things had started, the last time arou
nd. He looked around, trying to spot the other rogues he suspected would be somewhere nearby. There would probably be three or four in total, all working together in a carefully choreographed routine that would see whatever was stolen passed from one hand to the next. But the others—assuming there were more than just the woman and boy—didn’t tip their hands.
Arvin slipped his pack off his shoulders, checked to make sure its flaps were securely fastened, then put it back on. He made a show of nervously patting a trouser pocket, drawing the boy’s eyes to it. The only thing in that pocket was the remainder of Arvin’s breakfast—some nuts and a dried cheese, wrapped in waxed cloth. His coin pouch with its supply of the local currency—small silver and gold coins called “fists” and “plumes,” respectively, after the symbols stamped onto them—was tucked safely inside his boot.
As the ship was made fast, Arvin’s eye ranged over the waterfront. The businesses lining it were typical of any port city: warehouses, boat builders, sail and rope makers, taverns, and fish-salting houses. There were also a number of stables, judging by the whinnying coming from some larger buildings farther down the waterfront, buildings that were fronted by fences that led to ramps on the pier. From these, the swift-footed horses of Sespech’s famed Golden Plains were loaded aboard ships.
Instead of fountains, which could be found everywhere in Hlondeth, the people of Mimph seemed to prefer religious sculpture. At the top of a short flight of steps leading up from the pier where Arvin’s ship had tied up was a low stone dais that supported an enormous gauntlet as tall as a man—the symbol of the god Helm. The statue was brightly polished and appeared to be made of silver. The fingers were stiff and erect, as if the gauntlet were saying, “Halt!” It faced the harbor; on its palm was the symbol of an eye, outlined in blue. The pupil of the eye was an enormous gemstone. Judging by its rich blue color, it might have been a sapphire.
