Lisa Smedman - Venom’s Taste

“Which one is it?” the slave asked. “I’ll-”

“No you won’t,” Arvin said. “I will.”

“But it’s Highsun,” the slave protested. “The snakes are all away from the-”

“Don’t question me, slave,” Arvin spat, easily imitating Zelia’s imperious tone. The throbbing in his head helped; it gave an edge to his impatience. “Come down here at once, or you will be punished.” Arvin twitched his upper lip, as if about to bare his fangs. “I’ll see to it myself.”

The slave’s face paled and he sank to the ground. As he landed, Arvin eyed his sandals. They were made from unblemished white leather-pegasus hide.

The slave stood, eyes obediently on the ground but with a wary look on his face. It was clear he didn’t believe Arvin’s story, yet at the same time he was frightened of disobeying a yuan-ti. Seeing this, Arvin drew upon his psionic talent. The base of his scalp prickling with energy, he spoke softly to the slave. “You’ve served the Extaminos family for many years, slave. You can be trusted to keep a secret. It wasn’t just any yuan-ti that was killed, but Osran Extaminos, tenth in line for the throne.”

The slave had been standing with his head tilted, as if listening not just to Arvin but also to a distant sound-the charm’s secondary display. “I heard the palace slaves whispering about Osran,” he confided. “I didn’t believe it was true.”

“I assure you, it is,” Arvin said gravely, steering the slave into the shade of a nearby building. “We suspect the snake that killed him was a polymorphed assassin. I’m here to lay a trap for him. I need to take your place for the day. Give me your clothes and bucket… and those sandals.”

The slave looked at him warily. “I can’t. I’ll be punished if they find out.”

“They won’t,” Arvin snapped-a little more testily than he’d intended. “Nobody will know.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out his last three silver pieces, and pressed them into the slave’s hand. “Take the day off. Treat yourself to a bath-a long one. Don’t come back until Sunset. I’ll leave the sandals in the bucket, under here.” He gestured at the base of a nearby ramp. The shadowed hollow under it would make an excellent hiding place.

The slave stood, staring uncertainly at the silver coins on his palm. “I don’t know…”

Arvin rubbed his throbbing temples. The midday heat was making them pound worse than ever. “You don’t know what?” he snapped, hissing angrily.

The human swallowed nervously. “Maybe we should speak to my master, first, before…”

Arvin couldn’t stand it any longer. Humans weren’t supposed to question-they were meant to obey. His whole plan was about to come undone. He couldn’t permit that to happen. His angry hiss turned into a whisper. “Shivis!”

Quick as thought, the dagger was in his gloved hand. He thrust forward and the blade bit deep into the slave’s stomach. “You’re not”- stab- “speaking”- stab -“to your master!” Arvin hissed.

The slave sank to the street, eyes wide and mouth making faint gasping sounds. His bucket clattered to the ground beside him, spilling its last dribble of water. Something warm and sticky coated Arvin’s hand; he licked his fingers and was rewarded with the sweet taste of blood. “Insolent human,” he muttered, the last word twisting his lips.

Only then did he realize what he’d done.

He stared down at the slave, horrified. Then he realized the man’s blood was still on his lips. He spat and nearly threw up. He slammed his fist into the wall. “Gods curse you, Zelia.”

Realizing he might be in trouble-big trouble-if any of the militia were nearby, Arvin looked wildly around. No one was in sight. Disappearing the dagger into his glove-he’d clean it later-he shoved the body under the ramp. He crouched for a moment in the cool shadow, and closed his eyes against the throbbing in his head, saying a prayer for the slave’s soul. Then, hands shaking, he unfastened the man’s sandals. He glanced at the bright red drops of blood on the white leather then at the body. “I didn’t mean to…” he started to say. Then he sighed. What did it matter what he meant to do? The man was dead.

Arvin pulled off his boots and fastened the sandals to his feet then crawled out from under the ramp. The three silver pieces lay on the street, next to a smear of blood. He left them where they’d fallen. Picking up the empty bucket, he walked toward the tower.

The magical sandals proved surprisingly easy to use. Arvin merely visualized himself rising and up he went. The tower was six stories high, but fortunately, he had no fear of heights. He stared, unconcerned, as the ground seemed to fall away below him. He landed easily on the rooftop, which was bare aside from a single tap whose pipe rose out of the ceiling like an erect snake.

A trapdoor at the center was closed with a padlock. Using the picks in his belt buckle, Arvin quickly opened it. He lifted the trapdoor and saw a stone staircase that spiraled down. Sunlight slanted into it through holes that gave access to the niches in which the flying snakes nested. The air in the narrow stairway was dry, dusty, and hot-and stank of snake.

Arvin stepped down into the stairway then sat and pulled off the sandals. They were valuable, and he might need them to get out of the tower, but he didn’t care. He didn’t want them on his feet a moment longer than was absolutely necessary. He placed them, together with the padlock, inside the bucket and set it aside. Then he closed the trapdoor and tiptoed down the stairs, barefoot.

The stairs seemed to spiral down endlessly. After a while the air grew cooler as Arvin descended below the last of the beams of sunlight-and below ground level. At last, after several more turnings, they ended. The light at the bottom of the stairs was extremely poor, but Arvin had a sense that the staircase opened onto a large room. A new odor filled the air-rodent droppings. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, Arvin saw that the walls of the room were lined with cages. Rats scrabbled within them, filling the air with their soft scurrying. Remembering the rat that had burst into flames, Arvin shuddered. But at the same time he wet his lips in anticipation and strained forward, half expecting to sense the rat’s body warmth through the pits in his-

No. He was thinking like Zelia again. The rats were not food.

Not for him, at any rate.

He made a circuit of the room, inspecting the floor in front of the cages. Had he gone to all this trouble-even killed a man-for nothing? Then he spotted something that gave him hope-faint scrapes in the layer of grime that covered the floor. The cages had been moved recently. Peering at the wall behind them, he saw a faint line: a hidden doorway. Warily, he grasped the top cage and began to move it aside.

Pain exploded in his head as something smacked into the back of it. Staggered by the blow-and the jolt of magical energy it unleashed-Arvin fell against the cages, which crashed down on top of him. The rats inside them squealed furiously and nipped at his hands as he scrambled to knock the cages aside, to see who had attacked him.

“Wait!” Arvin gasped, flailing under the cages. “I’m a friend. I’m-”

“Arvin!” a harsh voice said, completing the sentence for him.

Chorl stood looking down at him. The balding rebel must have been invisible until his attack. He held the end of his staff level with Arvin’s chest, ready to thrust it at him. Its tip crackled with magical energy, filling Arvin’s nostrils with a sharp, burnt odor. With a sinking feeling, Arvin saw that it was poised over his heart. All that was holding Chorl back was righteous anger-and the need to tell Arvin off. “You dare come back here, you scaly bastard?” he spat. “This time, I’ll see to it that-”