Lisa Smedman - Venom’s Taste

“Get Nicco,” Arvin said. “He’ll vouch for me.”

“Nicco’s busy.”

Relief washed through Arvin. “He escaped?” He started to let out a slow hiss but abruptly covered it with a whispered prayer. “Tymora be praised. Tell him I’ve learned more about what the Pox are up to. They’re taking delivery of the transformative potion tonight-a whole barrel of the stuff. It’s going to be delivered to the cultists in a field, and I can tell you which one. Your people will need to move quickly, if you want to prevent them from tainting the public wells. They-”

“You want Gonthril to rush everyone out to some field,” Chorl guessed. “Tonight.”

Arvin nodded. “It will be your one chance to stop the cultists,” he said then quickly added, “and to stop the yuan-ti who are really behind this.”

“And you, of course, will lead us to this field.”

“No. All I promised was information-which I’ve just delivered-in return for a… healing from Nicco. Saving Hlondeth-preventing its humans from being transformed into yuan-ti-is in the Secession’s hands now.”

Chorl scowled. “You yuan-ti,” he growled. “You think you’re so superior. Did you really think we’d fall for-”

Seeing what was coming, Arvin attacked-not with his dagger, but with the power stone. Linking with it was a matter of mere thought; manifesting the power he wanted came almost as swiftly. Even as Chorl thrust his staff at Arvin’s chest, a rush of energy filled Arvin’s third eye. He caught the head of the staff with his bare palm just before it struck his chest and heard it begin to sizzle. The staffs magical energies flared-then were snuffed out as the acid in Arvin’s palm ate away at the staff. The wood crumbled back like a candle being melted by a blast of flame.

Shoving what remained of the staff-a mere stub that Chorl held in one hand-Arvin sent the rebel staggering backward. Arvin followed him, sending a stinging flick of acid at Chorl from his dripping hand. The rebel winced as it struck his cheek.

“Be thankful I chose to dissolve your staff,” Arvin hissed angrily. “I could have chosen your hand-or your face.”

Chorl gaped at the stub he held in his hand then threw it aside. “I knew you were a yuan-ti,” he snarled.

Too late, Arvin realized he’d manifested a power that “proved,” in Chorl’s mind, that Arvin was a yuan-ti. As Chorl drew a dagger and moved forward, holding it low and ready, Arvin manifested his own dagger into his glove. He heard the scrape of stone-the hidden door behind him was opening. So filled with fury was he, that he ignored it. Hissing with rage, he drew back his arm for a throw at Chorl’s throat even as Chorl tensed for a charge.

“Peace!” a man’s voice shouted.

Calm flowed into Arvin, filling him with a warm, slow languor. Part of his mind recognized it as a magical effect, but he couldn’t seem to find the energy to fight it. As his anger drained away, he lowered his dagger. His free hand rubbed his temple and he stared at Chorl, who stood, staring at his own weapon. Why had Arvin wanted to hurt the rebel? Oh yes, because they were fighting. He’d been angry about… something.

Nicco stepped forward, plucked the dagger from Arvin’s hand, and shoved it into the sheath on Arvin’s belt. “Arvin,” he said, wrapping an arm around his shoulder. “I’ve been looking for you. Come with me.” He turned. “You too, Chorl.”

Feeling relaxed and content, Arvin walked with the cleric through the hidden door-not even caring that his back was to Chorl-and down a short corridor. It led to a wine cellar. Enormous barrels, split with age, lined the walls. A staircase that used to lead up to ground level was nearly buried under rubble from the Nesting Tower’s construction. A dozen or so rebels were in the cellar, some sitting and conversing in low tones, others drowsing on blankets spread on the floor. They turned to stare at Nicco and Arvin as they entered the room. Several leaped to their feet, drawing swords. One of them-Gonthril-held up a hand, halting them. His intense blue eyes took Arvin’s measure for a long time before he spoke.

“Four rebels are dead,” he said, toying with one of the rings he wore. “Explain to me why we should let you live.”

Wetting his lips nervously, Arvin glanced at Nicco. The cleric gave a nod that Arvin hoped was meant to be encouragement.

“Osran wasn’t the only yuan-ti involved with the Pox,” Arvin began. “There are at least two more. Karshis, who I killed-”

This brought a murmur of surprise from the rebels.

“-and the yuan-ti who is Karshis’s superior: an abomination named Sibyl. She’s delivering the transformative potion to the cultists tonight, and I know where that delivery is going to take place. All of the cultists will be together in one place. If you want to finish what you started, tonight may be your only chance.”

Gonthril reached into his pocket and withdrew a silver ring-the one that compelled the truth. “Tell me how you know this,” he said, handing it to Arvin.

Arvin put on the ring then recapped what had happened in the crematorium, reciting from memory the conversation he’d overheard between Karshis and Sibyl. “It took me a while to figure out which field they must have been talking about,” he said. “The Pox like to use places associated with disease: the sewers, the closed slaughterhouse, the crematorium. The ‘rotting’ field is the one that lies trampled and burned. The field used for last year’s Rotting Dance.”

Chorl, standing beside Gonthril, listened with narrowed eyes. “An open field,” he grumbled, “with no place to hide. If this is an ambush, we’ll be cut down like ripe wheat.”

The rebels muttered; Gonthril silenced them with a curt gesture. “Arvin has told us the truth,” he told them. “Tonight may be our only chance to save our people. It’s worth the risk; we’ll send someone ahead to scout the field, and the rest of us will wait here until just before Middark. In order to prevent information from… slipping out again, Arvin will remain here with us, under guard.” He turned to Arvin. “Agreed?”

Arvin wet his lips. “Agreed,” he said.

Gonthril held out a hand and the ring was suddenly loose on Arvin’s finger. Arvin took it off and passed it back to him.

As the rebels clustered around Gonthril, talking, Nicco led Arvin aside. Arvin dropped his voice to a whisper, and spoke urgently to the cleric. “I’ve given the rebels what they need,” he reminded Nicco. “Now how about that restorative prayer?”

Nicco shook his head. “I’m going to need all of the blessings Hoar has bestowed upon me for tonight’s work. There are more than a dozen people who must be rendered invisible-not to mention bestowed with protective blessings-and other prayers will be needed. Once we have dealt with the cultists-”

“But that won’t be until Middark! “ Arvin protested. “And tomorrow will be the seventh day since the mind seed was planted. It could blossom as soon as Middark turns. By making me wait, you’re condemning me to-”

“I condemn you to nothing,” Nicco flared. “I have promised you a restorative prayer, and you shall receive it-when I am ready. Until then, you are in Hoar’s hands. If it is his will that the mind seed blossom at the turn of Middark, it may blossom. But I think that it will not. Hoar showed you mercy once, already, in the pit. He will surely continue to do so.”

Arvin nodded glumly. His own clever trick was working against him. Nicco might be convinced that Hoar favored Arvin, but Arvin himself knew otherwise. He reached to touch the bead at his throat then remembered it wasn’t there any more. He thrust a hand into his pocket instead, clenching the power stone in his fist.