by Tim Pratt
“I don’t suppose she’d bother poisoning us,” Julen said, as if to himself, “when she has armed guards standing by.”
Iraska sipped from the cup. “Actually, once upon a time, I preferred poison over more obvious approaches to murder. I was a devotee of a certain god with a fondness for venoms and toxins and treachery. But these days, I have other allegiances. I’d like to propose a toast.” She raised her cup. “To family reunited.”
Zaltys and Julen raised their cups and murmured something vaguely affirmative. The water was icy cold, almost as pure and delicious as the water that poured from Julen’s magical crystal bottle.
Iraska strolled over to the edge of the pool, her back turned to them. Julen leaned in close to Zaltys and whispered fiercely, “Did you see her teeth? Do you think the derro did that to her? Do you think she wanted them to?”
“I don’t know,” Zaltys said. “I don’t understand this at all.”
“Don’t worry,” Iraska said, gazing at the still water at her feet. “I don’t dip my drinking water out of the pool. It’s from a private spring, very clean. This water … Well, I can’t confirm that aboleths shit as other creatures do, but if so, this pool must assuredly be filled with it.”
“I’m sorry,” Zaltys said, putting her cup down. “I’m not very good at talking in circles and implying things and letting silences speak louder than words. My mother-ah, my adopted mother-says it’s a good thing I’m not part of the Traders, or I’d be demoted to swineherd, because only pigs are as tactless as I am. So I’m just going to say, I don’t understand what’s happening here. I came to save my people from slavers-and now I find out they’re your people too, but you’re the king of the slavers.”
Iraska turned. She had moved farther from the torches, and the light reflecting off the pool of water cast her in additional flickering shadows, making her look older and younger by turns. “Did you really? Come on a mission of mercy and salvation. Whatever possessed you to do that?” There was genuine interest in her voice, but also amusement, and-Zaltys was almost sure-something like contempt. She didn’t know how to respond.
Julen cleared his throat. “The people that adopted Zaltys … We Serrats hold family sacred. We grow up knowing that nothing’s more important than standing by your kin. We have our feuds, and our rivalries, and I have aunts and uncles who haven’t spoken to each other in years over slights no one can even remember, but those uncles would kill or die to defend those aunts from outside threats, and vice versa. We have a saying in the Guardians: Trust nothing, save for family.” He shrugged. “Zaltys just … carried the idea a bit farther than most of us do. If family is all-important, and some of her family is trapped underground, then she had to go and save them.”
“Extraordinary,” Iraska said. “I mean that.”
“But if you’re the leader of the derro,” Zaltys said, “then it doesn’t make sense that my village was taken as slaves by the derro, because it’s your village too. Or were you not leader then? Were you taken by the derro as well, and somehow became leader later? Does that mean my family is all right? Do they live down here with you?”
“As a theory,” Iraska said, “it has much to recommend it, not least of all the prospect of a bona fide happy ending. Alas, the virtues of your premise do not extend to accuracy.”
“Do you mean they all died,” Zaltys said, “or-”
Iraska held up her hand for silence. “Let me explain the best way I know how. It may be a trifle roundabout. I ask you to bear with me. Have you ever heard the parable of the turtle and the serpent?”
“I don’t think so,” Zaltys said.
“That’s a shame. I shudder to think what you learned from the apes who raised you. Creatures who huddle together for warmth, suck milk from one another’s bodies …” She turned her head and spat. “This is a story everyone in your real family learned when they were children. A useful story. One day a turtle came down to a river, planning to swim across and go about his turtleish business. Now it so happened that a snake was sunning itself by the riverbank, and it too, wanted to get across the river, but it didn’t know how to swim. Because it was not a water snake, but instead the sort of snake that twines itself around tree branches. So it said to the turtle, ‘You and I are much the same-indeed, we’re practically cousins. Both reptiles, both cold-blooded. Why, if I had a shell and arms and legs, you and I would be almost indistinguishable in poor light. Could you do me a favor, out of family courtesy, and give me a ride across the river?’
“The turtle considered running away, for it knew snakes of this sort were lethal, but it was slow, and the snake was fast, and it was afraid if it ran it would be caught, so it said, ‘I am a kindly creature, and disposed to help others, but your reputation is fearsome. How do I know that, if I let you coil upon my shell, you won’t strike me dead as I’m swimming?’
“ ‘Simple self-preservation,’ the serpent replied. ‘If I kill you while you’re swimming, we’ll both die, you by biting, me by drowning.’
“ ‘Fair enough,’ the turtle said. ‘But what if you kill me when I get you to the other side?’
“ ‘I’m not without gratitude,’ the snake replied. ‘I would owe you a kindness in return for your help. And anyway, your blood is cold, and I don’t eat reptiles for preference, and why would I kill you, except to eat you?’
“In truth the turtle was not greatly reassured, but the serpent seemed sincere, and running wasn’t an option, so the turtle agreed, and the snake coiled up on his shell, which was almost as good as sunning on a rock, really. The turtle plunged into the water and began its slow swim across the river. When they reached the other side, the turtle said, ‘Well, here we are.’ And then the snake rather lazily bent down, nuzzled the exposed bit of the turtle’s neck, and bit down with its fangs, pumping poison into the little reptile. The paralysis set in almost immediately, and the turtle went still as the snake slithered off its shell. Just before it died, the turtle cried out, ‘Why? Why bite me? I helped you!’ And the snake just replied, ‘I had no choice. I can’t help my nature.’ ” Iraska beamed at them like a schoolteacher imparting wisdom to her brightest students.
“I have heard that one,” Julen said, looking down into the contents of his cup. “But it was a frog and a spider in the version I was told. And the spider bit the frog halfway across the river, and they both died. I’m not sure I understand the point of it, the way you told it.”
Iraska ignored him, looking at Zaltys. “But I find myself wondering-what if the snake had been raised among turtles? Dressed in a shell made of wood, perhaps, with false legs glued on, so it could pass for a turtle? So it could come to believe it was a turtle? Would its nature be changed by its upbringing, or would its true poisonous essence make itself known on the first river crossing? Would it just thank the stupid useless weak turtle and let it go on its way?”
“I don’t feel well,” Julen said, swaying, one hand touching his forehead.
“I should hope not,” Iraska said. “The poison in the water should be having some effect by now. It doesn’t actually kill you-it brings on a sort of half-death in which you’ll be very susceptible to suggestion, which makes it perfect for mushroom-gathering slaves. Not so good for soldiers. We can’t even use drugged slaves as forlorn hopes-that’s what you call soldiers sacrificed to break through an enemy’s defense-because they move too slowly. Useful stuff, and so much crueler, and thus more satisfying, than simple death.”
“You poisoned him?” Zaltys said, as Julen groaned and sank to the floor, pitching over onto the stones. “But-why would you do that?”
“It’s my nature,” Iraska said, and showed her terrible fangs.
Chapter Twenty
There’s something about those lights,” Alaia murmured, gazing at the floating clouds of blue-green haze. “They’re unnatural. Just looking at them makes my teeth ache. I think they’re points of access to the Far Realm.” She shuddered. “Birth canals for aberrations. What are these creatures doing
down here?”
“Foul derro magic,” Krailash said. “The sooner we can find Zaltys and Julen and get away from the creatures, the happier I’ll be. I thought yuan-ti were the most vile creatures in this jungle or below it, but the derro are changing my mind. We might petition the Guardians to send a substantial force to wipe out these creatures. I think we can convincingly argue they’re a threat to the caravan.”
Alaia nodded. “True, though the losses would be significant … We can always hire mercenaries. The other heads of the family would curse the expense, but I don’t see how I can let this go on. Whatever else I may be, I am still a shaman, and the Far Realm poisons everything. If I tell them the derro experiments could harm the terazul blossoms, they’ll come around. Let’s focus on the current situation, though.”
“We should avoid the main settlement,” Krailash whispered, peeking out from the inadequate concealment of a rock not far from the fungus fields and their plodding laborers. “I doubt they’d keep slaves there anyway-too smelly. More likely they’d keep them close to the place where they need to work, this mushroom forest.”
“Fair enough,” Alaia said. “But there’s the small matter of whip-wielding derro patrolling those fields, and for all we know, the slaves might call out for guards if they see us. Engaging in a fight this close to the heart of the derro city-if you can call that conglomeration of bone-covered mining buildings a city-seems unwise.”
“True. I don’t suppose you can create some concealment for us?”
Alaia sighed. “I couldn’t have hired a sneaking shadowy cutthroat for my head of security like the Guardians wanted, oh, no, I had to get a great unsubtle dragonborn clanking about in plate armor.”
Krailash grinned. If the stakes hadn’t been so high, he would have been enjoying himself. It was almost like adventuring again, and his blood sang with the thrill of old times restored. “I pick shifty cutthroats out of my teeth, though, so you made the right choice. Shall I just try to keep my clanking to a minimum, or do you know any tricks that can help us?”
Alaia chanted softly, and Krailash heard the words “spirit,” “moon,” and “shadow” in an old tongue, a moment before a curtain of glimmering lights and mist appeared, settling over them like dew upon morning flowers, and then vanishing from sight. “We are concealed,” Alaia whispered, “though only from sight, so try to keep quiet.”
Krailash nodded, and they crept closer to the mushroom fields. The blobby rows of fungus smelled strongly of old wet socks and intestinal distress; at least they didn’t have to worry about any of the especially sensitive slaves smelling their intrusion. Krailash paused, and pointed toward a low structure on the far side of the field. They had to go the long way, because cutting through the mushroom field would leave a swath of destruction that would certainly be noticed, and the slowness of their progress was maddening. They paused while a derro dressed in black leather and holding a cruelly-knotted whip stopped to help up a quaggoth who’d collapsed with exhaustion not three feet away from Krailash and Alaia. The derro murmured solicitously, helped the reeking, hairy beast man-which was easily two feet taller than the derro overseer-to its feet, gave it a long drink of water from his own canteen, and patted the quaggoth on the back. The slave bent down to pick up its gathering basket, and while its back was turned, the derro overseer drew a wickedly curved knife as long as its own forearm and jammed it into the quaggoth’s back, where the kidneys would be on a human. Krailash winced as the quaggoth roared, reared back, and then fell among the mushrooms. The derro overseer nudged the body with his foot, then strode off across the field shouting orders.
Krailash and Alaia continued, finally drawing close enough to see the holding pens clearly.
“Are those made of wood?” Alaia whispered. “Where would they get so much wood down here?”
Krailash shook his head. “Bone. They’re made of bone.” The slave pens were vast, long, low cages of lashed-together bones bulit up against one wall of the huge cavern. The cages were apparently divided into compartments by race, presumably to keep the more inimical varieties of slaves from killing one another. The kuo-toa compartment was backed against a dirty waterfall, so a cascade of water flowed through, and a few of the fish people huddled under the spray in a desultory way. As they watched, a pair of quaggoth slaves dragged the body of their recently-murdered comrade to the compartment of their race, and hurled the dead body in through the doors. The quaggoth inside fell upon the corpse and began tearing it apart for food. Alaia gagged at the smell, and Krailash didn’t blame her. Weren’t the quaggoths supposed to be natural shamans, with a connection to the primal world of the caverns? If so, seeing them brought so low and forced into servitude to creatures who venerated aberrations must be especially painful for Alaia.
“I don’t see any humans,” Krailash whispered, fearing the worst. What if all Zaltys’s family had been killed long ago? Most of these other slaves were natural inhabitants of the Underdark, and probably better suited to the harshness of life there.
“I didn’t expect to,” Alaia whispered back. “But do you see Zaltys, or Julen? I don’t-” She paused, and stopped breathing, and Krailash looked at her with alarm. “No,” she whispered. “No, it can’t be.”
“What?” Krailash said, looking around for an enemy, and seeing none-or, at least, none that also saw him.
“The flowers,” Alaia murmured, and raised her finger, pointing.
Krailash hadn’t noticed before, but there were vines climbing up the wall of the cave, vanishing into the darkness above. They were covered in the familiar brilliant blue flowers that formed the foundation of the Serrat family’s power-terazul. “But that’s good,” Krailash said. “If there are terazul vines here, then the Guardians will definitely send a detachment to wipe out the derro, just to protect the monopoly.”
“The roots,” Alaia said. “Krailash, look at the roots.”
That would be something to see. No one on the surface had ever managed to pull up a terazul vine by the roots, they simply went too deep. Perhaps because they originated here, and the vines had only wound their inexorable way up to the surface over time. Krailash knew what Alaia must be thinking-perhaps a terazul vine transplanted with the roots intact would be more successful than mere cuttings were, and might be grown in a Delzimmer hothouse without losing its potency.
Krailash ran his eyes down along the course of the vines. The spread-out tendrils gradually drew together into a twisted central mass as thick as a tree trunk, which ran along the cavern wall in a roughly horizontal way until finally terminating in one of the blue-green spheres of twisting light. The vines emerged from that light. Wherever the roots took hold, it wasn’t in their world.
“Terazul are flowers of the Far Realm,” Alaia said, and her voice was like the sound of spring ice giving way beneath your feet. “I have devoted my life to spreading poison from a realm of madness.”
Zaltys raised her crossbow, loading in a bolt, and the guards by the door stirred, but Iraska said “Wait” in a commanding tone. “You wouldn’t shoot me, would you, Zaltys?” she said. “You don’t even know if I have an antidote.”
Zaltys swallowed. She hadn’t even thought of it-the instinctive reaction to attack someone who hurt her family had been too strong. Of course, the person she proposed to attack also claimed to be her family, but she felt more loyalty to the cousin who’d tried to help her than to the multiply-great-aunt who’d poisoned him. “Well? Is there an antidote?”
“No, but it’s hardly necessary.” She poured the contents of her cup into the pool. “The poison wears off after a few hours, actually. Usually that’s not a problem-we just include doses of the drug in the water rations we give to the especially savage and dangerous crop-slaves. We don’t bother giving it to all of our field workers, just the ones who have difficulty adjusting to the reality of their lives. Most of our captives are too broken-willed after a few days in the slave pens to cause us any problems.”
Zaltys looked at the c
up in her other hand, and flung it at Iraska, who stepped neatly out of the way. The cup fell into the pool with a splash. “You poisoned me too? I don’t feel anything. And you drank from the same pitcher, so why don’t you …?”
She shrugged. “You and I are naturally immune to this poison, and many others. Julen, being merely human, has no such immunities. You see, my dear, you’re like me. You’re yuan-ti.”
Zaltys stared at her. “I knew derro were crazy. I should have known their leader would be crazy. You say you’re a yuan-ti, and I am too? Are you sure I’m not a minotaur? Or a purple dragon? Maybe you’re a grell.”
Iraska returned to her desk, seemingly unconcerned by the crossbow pointed at her. She settled down into her chair and leaned back, gazing at Zaltys. “They call us purebloods, Granddaughter. To your human ear that probably makes it sound like you and I should be exalted, I know, but yuan-ti see things differently. For people so closely related to snakes, being low is a virtue, and being raised high is nothing to be happy about. The most powerful of our race are called anathema, and those called abominations are also highly respected. Purebloods … Well, some see us as gifts from Zehir, admittedly. Tools of conquest. Others consider us shameful throwbacks. There is human-or, anyway, humanoid-ancestry among the yuan-ti, and occasionally that strain is especially strong, and a yuan-ti is born seeming almost human. But there’s always some telltale sign, some hint of the serpentfolk blood-a forked tongue, slit eyes, something. You’ve seen my fangs. When I lived among the humans, I had them filed down, but they grew back. How about you, Zaltys? Do you have anything like that? Perhaps a scar where a tail was removed? A patch of scales under your armpit?”
Though she didn’t consciously will it, Zaltys’s hand reached behind and touched the place at the small of her back where her skin was scarred, the place that always itched on her trips to the jungle, the site of the “fungal infection” that had to be periodically burned by the Serrat family chirurgeons with heated blades to keep it sanitized.
