Lisa Smedman - Viper's Kiss

That was when things had become awkward. Foesmasher had demanded that Arvin use his psionics to find the satyr, and Arvin had been forced to do some quick talking. He’d drained his energies, he told the baron. He needed to sleep, then to meditate, before he could manifest any more powers. Like a wizard consulting his spellbook, or a cleric praying to her god, he needed to restore his magic.

Grudgingly, the baron had agreed to the delay. Marasa and her clerics would search for the satyr while Arvin rested.

If only the dorje Tanju had given Arvin hadn’t broken, finding the satyr would have been an easy matter, Arvin thought. Without it, he would be forced to rely on his own, limited, powers. The only one he had that might be of use was one that gave him an inkling of whether a given course of action was good or bad. By manifesting it, he might get a sense of whether it would be better to search this section of the city or that one for the satyr. But the inklings weren’t always accurate, and the power could be manifested only so many times. And now it was morning, and his meditations were over—and the baron would expect him to perform a miracle.

Hunger grumbled in his stomach, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten yet. He should get dressed and find some food. He lifted his belt from the rack that held wooden practice swords and buckled it around his waist, adjusting it so his dagger was snug at the small of his back. His trousers and shirt were draped over one of the battered wooden posts that served as man-sized targets; his boots lay on the floor nearby. He dressed then crossed the room to a table on which stood a bowl of cold water. He splashed some of it onto his hair, combing it away from his eyes with his fingers. He flexed his left hand—his abbreviated little finger always ached in cold weather—then pulled on his magical glove. Then, just to see if he could do it, he drew his dagger, closed his eyes, and suddenly spun and threw the weapon, relying on memory to guide his aim. He heard a thunk and a creaking noise and opened his eyes. The arm of the quintain was rotating slowly, the dagger stuck fast in the center of the small wooden shield that hung from one end of it. Arvin smiled.

Applause echoed from above. Glancing up, Arvin saw the baron standing on the spectator’s gallery that ran along one side of the practice hall. He had entered it silently, his footsteps muffled by the gallery’s thick carpet. Arvin wondered how long he’d been standing there. The baron had changed into fresh clothes, but his eyes were puffy; he hadn’t slept. A sword was at his hip, and he was wearing his helmet. Its purple plume swayed as he descended the stairs to the floor of the practice room.

“The satyr has been found,” Foesmasher announced.

“Excellent!” Arvin exclaimed, relieved. “If we ask the right questions, his thoughts will tell us where….” Belatedly, he noticed that the baron’s lips were pressed together in a grim line. “What’s wrong?”

“When I received your warning last night, I ordered the city’s gates sealed,” Foesmasher said. “The Eyes began a block-by-block search of Ormpetarr; their spells flushed the satyr out a short time ago. He scaled the city wall. One of my soldiers gave chase along the battlements. The satyr slipped and fell to his death.”

“That’s terrible news,” Arvin said.

“Yes. The soldier responsible has been punished.”

Hearing the grim tone in Foesmasher’s voice, Arvin cringed, thankful he hadn’t been the one to cause the satyr’s death. He didn’t want to ask what had been done to the soldier; his imagination already painted a vivid enough picture.

The baron walked over to the quintain and pulled Arvin’s dagger from it. “You’ve rested and replenished your magic.” It was a statement rather than a question.

Arvin gave what he hoped was a confident-looking nod.

“What will you do next?”

Arvin was wondering that, himself. Even with the dorje intact, he might not have been able to locate Glisena. Whatever was preventing her from being located by wizardry and clerical magic might very well block psionics, as well. There was one person, however, who wasn’t shielded by magic.

“I’m going to pay a visit to Ambassador Extaminos,” Arvin told the baron.

Foesmasher frowned. “To what end?”

“It’s possible that Sibyl plans to use the child as a means to force Dmetrio to do her bidding,” Arvin explained. “Demands may already have been made—and if they have, and it’s Naneth who’s making them, Dmetrio may be our way of finding her. And through her, Glisena.”

“Excellent,” the baron said. “Let’s go there at once. If he doesn’t tell us what we want to know—”

“That might not be such a good idea, Lord Foesmasher,” Arvin said in a careful voice. “Your presence might… agitate the ambassador. And an agitated mind will be harder for my psionics to penetrate. The best chance we have of learning more is if I meet with the ambassador alone.”

The baron toyed with Arvin’s dagger, considering this. “Was it mind magic that allowed you to find the target with your eyes closed,” he asked, testing the dagger’s balance, “or the magic of this dagger?”

“Neither,” Arvin said, surprised by the change of subject. “I’ve worked as a net weaver and rope maker since the age of six. It makes for nimble fingers—you learn to be quick with a knife. Target practice does the rest.”

The baron handed him the dagger. “Helm grant that the questions you put to Ambassador Extaminos also find their mark.”

Arvin paced impatiently in the reception hall, angry at having been kept waiting an entire morning. Dmetrio’s house slaves had provided him with wine and food—roasted red beetles the size of his fist, pre-cracked and drizzled with herbed butter—but Arvin waved away the yuan-ti delicacy. He’d already blunted the worst of his hunger at the palace and was too restless to eat. He ignored the smooth stone platform the slaves urged him to recline on and instead paced back and forth across the tiled floor, staring at the locked door of the basking room. At last it opened and a slave, bent nearly double under the weight of the jug of oil he carried, stepped through. Arvin strode toward the door.

“Wait!” the slave cried through the scarf that covered his mouth. “There’s osssra inside. You mustn’t go in there!”

“Too late,” Arvin muttered as he pushed past the slave. “I’m already in.”

The air in the basking room was thick with smoke that smelled like a combination of mint tea, singed moss, and burning sap. It hit Arvin’s nostrils like a slap across the face, leaving them watering. As he breathed in the smoke, the room swayed and his legs began to tremble. He staggered, catching himself on one of the pillars that held up the domed ceiling. He clung to it, shaking his head, fighting the waves of dizziness.

A low chuckle helped him focus. Still clutching at the pillar, he turned toward the sound.

Dmetrio Extaminos lay in a shallow pool in the floor a few paces away. His naked, scaled body was coiled under him; it gleamed from the oil that filled the pool. His upper torso rose from it, bending back like a snake’s. He looked up at Arvin with a languid expression, slit eyes wide and staring, his dark hair slicked back from his high forehead. A forked tongue flickered out of his mouth, tasting the smoke-filled air.

“Ah,” he said. “The rope merchant’s agent. Are you really here… or just part of my dream?”

Smoke drifted slowly from the half dozen lidded pots that surrounded the pool, drawing Arvin’s eye. He watched, fascinated, as amber-colored tendrils twisted toward the ceiling. Only when he heard the slither of Dmetrio shifting position was he able to wrench his eyes away from the smoke. He shook his head violently, trying to concentrate. The smoke, he thought. He should have listened to the servant’s warning. He tried to manifest the power that would allow him to overhear Dmetrio’s thoughts, but his own thoughts were too sluggish; they drifted like the smoke. A glint of silver sparked in his vision then was gone.