time, gathering her remaining tools and tucking the goblin's notes in a pocket. Finally, she produced the vial of dark liquid, unsealed the top, and swallowed it.
Everything seemed to fall away from her. For a moment, Thorn was afraid that she'd lost her clothing and gear. But looking at her hand, she could see the leather glove, mithral bracer over her wrist-and she could see through them. When she moved her arm, there was no muscle tension, no sensation of skin against cloth. With her expanded senses she could feel the slightest shift in the air, but little more.
Rather than trying to walk, she imagined her body flowing toward the door, thinking of herself as a simple gust of wind. She focused on the narrow crack beneath the door, and then she was drifting down, the mist that was her body compressing to pass through the narrow opening. The ogre guard was looking away from her room, and Thorn glided across the hall and into the privy chamber.
Her journey through the sewers was far simpler this time. They were designed to channel gases and odors, and she flowed down through the maze. The only challenge was that she couldn't refer to Kalakhesh's notes; they were made of vapor, and her hand passed through them. She had only her memory to guide her through the foul labyrinth, and she couldn't even brush aside the scum covering the wall markings, or the insects crawling across every surface.
Patience and caution prevailed. It was easy to spot the newer stonework splitting off from the old; the walls were smooth, lacking the layers of scum built up over the centuries. The inscription on the wall was clear; the narrow path ahead would take Thorn to her final destination. She rose up through the narrow passage, through the opening of the latrine itself, and into the chambers of the medusa queen.
She emerged slowly, keeping her eyes tightly closed until she was certain there was no one around her. Opening her eyes, she examined the room. The brass mirror on the wall came as a surprise. It was a common myth that a medusa could be petrified by its own reflected gaze… then again, it would be difficult for a species to survive if they turned one another to statues. It made far more sense for the medusa to be immune to its deadly power. The only other feature of the chamber was a pit filled with fine, dark sand.
Does she bathe in it? Thorn wondered. But she discovered a greater concern-the faintest ripple in the air above the floor around the latrine, a whine just on the edge of hearing. Sheshka had considered the danger posed by the sewers; a mystical ward lay on the surrounding floor. Odds were good that the field rose from floor to ceiling, and even in her gaseous state, Thorn was likely to set it off.
I can't work like this, she thought. Thorn imagined a great weight spreading over her, lead flowing across her body. It was a trigger, a way to break the enchantment of the potion. As she contemplated the idea, vapor returned to flesh and blood. Her feet were set on either side of the latrine, and she struggled to maintain her balance in the wake of the disorienting sensations. Within a moment, the vertigo passed.
Kneeling carefully on the edge of the privy, Thorn studied the floor, watching for the shiver in the air that indicated the presence of magic. Steel could analyze the ward, but she didn't need the dagger for this; she'd learned to deal with mystical countermeasures long before she'd been told to work with Steel, and she enjoyed solving the puzzle. She reached into a pocket and produced a pinch of silvery powder. She tossed it into the air, mouthing three syllables as it fell. The silver immediately vaporized, and she studied the eddies of the vanishing mist.
An alarm, she thought. The mystic field wouldn't harm the person who touched it; they wouldn't even notice it. But it sent a magical warning to the person it was attuned to-likely Sheshka herself. If she were sleeping, it would certainly rouse her.
Let's do something about that, she thought. Thorn ran her fingers along the hem of her cloak, pulling on a stud and producing a length of mithral wire. Next she found a tiny vial-nightwater, fluid charged with the energies of Mabar, which had a dampening effect on many forms of magic. She considered the whirling mists she'd seen a moment ago; there were tiny gaps in the ward, and she needed to pass the probe through one of those openings. In the corner of the room above her, a tiny gray spider spun a web as Thorn extended her wire through the invisible wall of magic. Many breaths later, it touched the floor. Thorn's eyes were locked on the probe, but there was no spark or shimmer in the air around it; she'd been successful. Breaking the seal of the vial with her teeth, she let the nightwater flow down the wire, pooling on the floor. She saw a ripple… and then the air was still.
Thorn released her captive breath, returning the probe to her cloak. Only one more thing to do.
I hope you're right about this, Steel.
She took the masking bag out of its pouch and pulled the hood down over her face. Pulling on the strings, she tightened it around her throat; it wouldn't do to have it pulled free.
She felt as though she knew what was around her… but until a moment ago, she'd been able to see it, and it was still clear in her memory. She stepped down from the privy and removed Steel from his sheath.
I know you cannot see details, he whispered in her mind. If you need information, rub your thumb along my hilt in a circular pattern.
She tapped the hilt once and crept toward the doorway. The door was slightly ajar, and as Thorn leaned against the wall next to the opening, she found that she could feel what lay beyond. She could sense the width of the hallway, the height of the ceiling, and the presence of a familiar smell… Sheshka, a musky odor she now recognized from their earlier meeting.
She slid through the gap without touching the doorway. The short passage held two archways, both open. One led to a larger chamber; Thorn couldn't clearly sense what lay beyond the doorway, but the feeling of space suggested that it was the main room of the suite. The room to her right was smaller, more likely a bedroom. But she shivered as she sensed a shape in the doorway, blocking the passage. This was no wolfhound. It was easily as large as a pony, and it could barely fit through the arch. Another distinctive smell struck her nostrils, and Thorn knew what she was facing even as Steel confirmed it.
Basilisk, he said.
CHAPTER TWENTY — THREE
The Great Crag Droaam Eyre 19, 998 YK
Thorn was pressed against the wall, and the beast gave no sign of detecting her. She quietly slipped Steel back into his sheath. The dagger wouldn't solve this problem, and she needed both hands for what she had in mind. Her hood protected her from the gaze of the basilisk, but it was a massive beast with armored hide and powerful jaws; it could sever her arm with a snap. And if Sheshka were asleep, the sound would surely wake her.
But noise was an enemy Thorn could defeat.
Thorn's cloak was an arsenal lined with weapons and tools. She had half a dozen blades to choose from, and she settled on a thin stiletto, balanced for throwing. It wouldn't end the fight, but it was a good opening. She slipped her hand into a hidden pocket and her fingers closed around a small globe of glass.
The basilisk raised its head and grunted. Thorn froze, and the strangeness of the experience washed over her. She couldn't actually see the creature. She didn't know if its deadly eyes were exposed. But she could feel its motion, the shifting of displaced air as it moved its blunt, wedge-shaped head. When she tried to think about the scene, it collapsed. It was as Steel had said-her subconscious mind understood her senses. She just had to accept it.
The beast shifted against the floor but didn't rise to its feet. Thorn slowly removed the sphere from her cloak, and as she did so the basilisk lowered its head. She felt a slight pang as she raised the stiletto. She'd killed people before in the service of Breland-more than she cared to remember. This was a dumb brute, just a strange sort of animal. Yet it reminded her of Boros, the hound she'd had as a child. When her father was off to war, Nyrielle and her brother Nandon had spent most of their nights curled up with Boros. The basilisk wasn't an enemy soldier or spy; it was a loyal beast protecting its mistress as she slept, as Boros had watched over her.
But this wouldn't be the first innocent that she'd killed, man or beast-and it wouldn't be the last. Thorn hurled the knife, hoping to hit one of the creature's deadly eyes. Before the blade struck its target, she dashed the glass globe to the floor. The stiletto pierced the thick hide of the beast and it rose to its feet, thrashing its tail and bellowing with rage. It roared, but no sound echoed through the room.
The shattered sphere was a product of the master alchemists of Zilargo. The fluid was atomized, spreading its effect into the air when it was released. In this case, the mystical gas absorbed all sound in the area, lasting a
