Lisa Smedman - Viper's Kiss

Arvin turned. “What do you mean?”

Rillis rubbed a thumb and forefinger together. The gesture was the one word in silent speech that was understood even by those not in the Guild: coin.

Arvin nodded and pulled his pouch out of his boot. He counted two silver pieces into the militiaman’s outstretched hand.

Rillis quickly pocketed them. “The ambassador and the baron had a falling out,” he told Arvin. “It’s been more than a month since Ambassador Extaminos visited the palace. I don’t think they’ve even sent a message to one another, in all that time.”

“Why is that?” Arvin asked. Carefully, he probed for information, under the pretense of sarcasm. “Did the baron’s daughter pay him a visit and forget to go home one night?”

Rillis laughed. “You obviously haven’t met her chaperones. She never sets foot outside the palace without them. Baron’s orders.” He winked. “He didn’t want any little ones slithering out from under the woodpile. Not without a formal joining of the houses.”

Arvin nodded. “Is a joining likely?”

“Not now that the ambassador’s being withdrawn from Sespech.” He paused to draw his cloak tighter across his chest.

“When is he leaving?”

Rillis stared pointedly at Arvin’s pouch. Taking the hint, Arvin handed him another silver piece.

“As soon as the new ambassador arrives,” Rillis continued. “Meanwhile, the house slaves can’t seem to pack fast enough for Ambassador Extaminos. He’s been hissing at them for nearly a tenday.”

Arvin nodded. Interesting, that was roughly the amount of time that had elapsed since Glisena’s disappearance. He glanced up at the windows of the ambassador’s residence, saw slaves bustling about in each room, and wondered why Dmetrio was in such a hurry to leave. Was the baron’s daughter hiding somewhere nearby, waiting to depart with him?

Arvin sighed and stared down the street, in the direction Karrell had gone. After what Rillis had just told him, Arvin realized that he probably wouldn’t have gotten anything out of Dmetrio, anyway. The ambassador had shrugged off Karrell’s charm like a duck shedding water. Arvin’s attempt to charm Dmetrio probably would have been equally futile.

“Thanks for the information,” Arvin told Rillis. The militiaman patted his pocket. “My pleasure.” Bidding Rillis good day, Arvin set out for the palace.

Baron Thuragar Foesmasher sat at one end of the council chamber, his broad hands resting on the arms of the heavy wooden chair. The man exuded both power and confidence. He was large, with dark eyes, hair cut square just above his eyebrows, and a blackish chin framed by a neatly trimmed beard. He wore a purple silk shirt; black trousers tied at the ankle, knee, and groin; and leather slippers embroidered in gold thread with the Foesmasher crest: a clenched fist. A heavy gold ring adorned the forefinger of his right hand; a silver brooch in the shape of a beetle was pinned to his shirt front. Arvin had no doubt that both pieces of jewelry were magical.

On a table next to the baron sat a helmet chased with gold and set with a single purple plume. Foesmasher had entered the room wearing it, but had taken the helm off after Arvin submitted to a magical scan by the baron’s chief advisor, a cleric named Marasa. She stood to the left of the baron’s chair. She wore a knee-length blue tunic over trousers and fur boots with gold felt tassels. Her hair was steel-gray and hung in two shoulder-length braids, each capped with a silver bead shaped like a gauntlet. On each wrist was a thick bracelet of polished silver bearing the blue eye of Helm. A mace hung from her belt.

The baron had dismissed Marasa from the chamber earlier, when he’d sent the servants away, but she had refused to leave. She was obviously an old friend—a supporter, rather than a vassal.

“Both clerical magic and wizardry have failed to locate my daughter,” the baron told Arvin. “But Lady Dediana has informed me that you can work a different kind of spell—one that requires neither spellbook nor holy symbol. She said it might circumvent whatever is preventing Glisena from being found.”

Before Arvin could respond, Marasa interrupted. “I doubt a sorcerer can part a veil that Helm himself has failed to rend.” She stared at Arvin, a challenge in her eyes. It was clear from the derisive way she’d used the term that she disapproved of sorcery.

Arvin met her eyes. “I’m not a sorcerer,” he told her. “I’m a psion.”

“What’s the difference?” she asked.

“A sorcerer casts spells that draw upon magic that is woven into the world. A psion uses mind magic. We tap the energies of the mind itself. If the magic of the Weave were to unravel tomorrow, sorcerers and wizards would lose their spells, but psions would continue to manifest their powers.”

Marasa nodded politely but appeared unconvinced. “What spell will you cast?” the baron asked. Arvin was acutely aware of the broken dorje in his pack. Without it, he had to rely on his wits—and the one psionic power that just might be of use—in order to find the baron’s daughter. “We call them “powers,’ not “spells,’ Lord Foesmasher. There are many I could choose from,” he continued, waving his hand breezily in the air, “but I’ll need to know more about the circumstances of your daughter’s disappearance in order to determine the best one to use. When was the last time you saw Glisena?”

The baron sighed heavily. He stared the length of the room, past the tapestries that commemorated his many skirmishes with Chondath, past the trophy shields and weapons that hung on the walls. His eye settled on a half dozen miniature ships that sat on a table near the far wall, models of the galleys Hlondeth was helping him build. For several moments, the only sound was the crackling of the fire in the hearth behind him. “A tenday ago,” he said at last. “We dined together, spent the evening listening to a harpist, and Glisena took her leave and retired to bed. The next morning, her chamber was empty. High Watcher Davinu was called in to recite a prayer that should have discerned her location but was unable to. It’s as if Glisena was spirited away to another plane of existence.” His voice crackled. “Either that, or she’s….”

Marasa touched his arm. “Glisena is still alive,” she said. “Davinu’s communion told us that much, at least.” She turned to Arvin. “But she seems to be shielded by powerful magic, which leads me to believe she didn’t leave willingly. She was kidnapped, most likely, by agents from Chondath. They—”

“There have been no demands,” Foesmasher interrupted, “from Wianar, or anyone else. My daughter left here of her own accord.” He stared broodingly at the wall.

The cleric gave an exasperated sigh. It was clear she had ventured this theory to the baron before—with the same result.

“Lady Marasa, I believe Baron Foesmasher is right,” Arvin said, breaking the silence. “Lord Wianar does not have Glisena.”

“How do you know this?” Marasa asked.

The baron, too, turned to stare at Arvin.

Arvin took a deep breath. “Does the name Haskar mean anything to you?”

The baron’s eyes blazed. “Haskar!” he growled. “Is that who has my daughter? By Helm, I’ll have his head.”

Arvin raised a hand. “Haskar doesn’t have Glisena. But he knows that she’s missing. He’d like to find her so he can sell her to Lord Wianar.” He turned to Marasa. “So you see, lady, it appears that Lord Wianar doesn’t have Glisena. If he did, Haskar wouldn’t have made him the offer.”

“How do you know all this?” the baron asked.

Arvin told him about the events of that morning. He emphasized the reward he had been offered, adding that he’d rather receive “honest coin” for his work. He was careful, however, to avoid any mention of his ability to listen to others’ thoughts, making it sound instead as though he had tricked the man into giving him the information. The baron seemed like a straightforward, honest man, but there might come a time when Arvin needed to know what he was really thinking.