Venom’s Taste

“What do you know about House Extaminos?” Gonthril asked.

Arvin frowned, confused by the sudden turn the conversation had taken. His mouth, however, answered of its own accord. “They rule Hlondeth. They’ve lived here for centuries. Most of them are yuan-ti. Lady Dediana-”

“I didn’t ask for a history lesson,” Gonthril said, holding up a hand to stem the flow of words. “I meant to ask if you knew what their role is in all of this.”

“What do you mean?” Arvin asked.

“A member of the royal family was observed meeting with Talona’s clerics. They turned over several captives to him. Human captives. Including one of our members. Do you know anything about that?”

“No,” Arvin answered honestly. He mulled this new information over in his mind. Zelia had been certain that the Pox weren’t acting on their own, that someone was backing them. Could it really be House Extaminos? Why would the ruling house want to spread plague in its own city? Unless there was a coup in the works.

“Which member of the royal family?” Arvin asked.

Gonthril’s eyes narrowed. “Why would you want to know that?”

“I suspect a yuan-ti might be behind the Pox. I want to know who it is.”

“Why?”

“Because I need…” Arvin’s voice trailed off as a fierce throbbing gripped his temples. Compelled by the ring, he’d started to answer honestly-to tell Gonthril that he needed to report this information to Zelia-but another answer was also trying to force itself out through his lips at the same time. That he needed to know if Sibyl was involved. Who that was, he had no idea-the name had just popped into his head. He knew where it had come from-the mind seed. Already, just a day and a half into the transformation, it was starting to take over his mind in subtle ways, to force his thoughts along channels that were foreign to him. And dangerous. The instant the Secession found out about his link with Zelia, Arvin would be a dead man.

With an effort that caused sweat to break out on his forehead, he forced himself to give an answer that would satisfy both himself and the mind seed. “I want to learn which yuan-ti are involved because it will help me stop the Pox,” he told Gonthril. “Are you sure it was a member of House Extaminos?”

“We’re sure. We observed him passing a dozen flasks-identical to this one-to one of Talona’s clerics, in exchange for the captives. But given what you’ve just told me, I’m confused. Delivering plague to clerics who can call down disease with a simple prayer makes no sense. It would be like carrying fire to Mount Ugruth.” He stared at Arvin, one eyebrow raised. “Would you like to know what’s really inside the flask?”

“Yes,” Arvin said, his answer uncompelled by the ring. “I would.”

“So would I.” Gonthril lowered the flask. “Two final questions. If I let you out of that room-let you move freely among us-will you attack us?”

“No.”

“Will you betray us to the militia?”

Arvin smiled. “The ten thousand gold piece bounty is tempting,” he answered honestly. “But no, I won’t give you away. Not while you have information that can help me find my friend.”

That made Gonthril smile. He gestured, and the ring was suddenly loose on Arvin’s finger. “Take the ring off, and come with me.”

24 Kythorn, Sunrise

Arvin sat on a low bench inside a room a short distance down the corridor from the one Gonthril had used to question him. He was flanked by two members of the Secession-Chorl, with his magical staff, and a younger man named Mortin, who had a day’s growth of beard on his chin. Gonthril stood nearby, arms folded across his chest as he watched a wizard lay out his equipment. Gonthril didn’t seem to regard Arvin as a threat-he had his back to Arvin-but Mortin had drawn his sword and Chorl held his staff ready. Neither of them took their eyes off Arvin.

Arvin stared at the wizard. He’d never met one face to face, but this fellow looked just as he would have imagined. He was an older man with wispy gray hair, thick eyebrows waxed into points, and a narrow face that was clean-shaven save for a goatlike tuft of white on his chin. The hand that stroked it had fingernails that were trimmed short, save for the little finger; that nail was nearly half as long as the finger itself. His shirt was large and hung loose over his trousers, giving it the appearance of a robe, and was fastened at the throat by an intricately wrought silver pin. The worn leather slippers on his feet had turned-up toes.

The table on which he was setting up his equipment took up most of the room. On it, the wizard had already set out a small pouch of soft leather, a bottle of wine, a feather, a mortar and pestle, and a pair of silver scissors. He opened the lid of a well-padded box and pulled from it a chalice with a bowl the size of a man’s fist. He set it carefully at the center of the table then lifted the lantern down from its metal hook on the ceiling and set it next to the chalice. He closed the lantern’s rear and side shutters, leaving a single beam. It shone on the chalice, illuminating the clear glass.

The wizard held out a hand. “The flask,” he said.

Gonthril handed it over. Holding it in one hand, the wizard began to chant in a language Arvin didn’t recognize-a lilting tongue in which soft-spoken words seemed to spill over one another with the fluidity of a tumbling brook. As he spoke, he held his free hand over the flask and made a pinching motion with fingers and thumb. Arvin heard a soft pop as the cork jerked out of the flask and rose into the air. Directing it with his fingers, the wizard sent it drifting away from him. Mortin drew back slightly as the cork moved toward him then relaxed again as it settled onto the table. Gonthril, meanwhile, watched closely as the wizard poured the contents of the flask into the chalice.

Arvin recognized the bitter odor of the liquid. He grimaced, remembering how it had been forced down his throat. As it trickled into the chalice, it was as clear as water, but as it filled the vessel, it changed color, becoming an inky black.

“Ah,” the wizard said as he peered down at it. “Poison.” He squatted, peering through the chalice toward the lantern, then nodded. “And a strong one, too. The light is almost entirely blocked.”

“What about plague?” Arvin asked nervously. “Is there any plague in-”

“Shhh!” The wizard held up a hand, silencing him. His eyes, however, never left the chalice. The color of the liquid inside it was changing, turning from black to a murky red. In a few moments, it was as bright as freshly spilled blood. The wizard peered through the side of the chalice, his eyebrows raised.

Gonthril leaned forward. “Well, Hazzan?”

The wizard straightened. “The liquid contains no plague,” he answered. He stared thoughtfully down at the chalice. “This is a potion… one that contains poison. The poison must be a component.”

Arvin hissed in relief. No plague. That was good news-one less thing to worry about. Meanwhile, his head continued its dull throbbing. He resisted the urge to rub his forehead.

“Can you identify the potion?” Gonthril asked the wizard.

“We shall see,” Hazzan answered. He picked up the pouch, untied it, and tipped its contents into his palm. A handful of pearls spilled out. He chose one and placed it inside the ceramic vessel then put the rest back into the pouch. With smooth strokes of the pestle, he ground the pearl he’d chosen into a fine powder. Into this he poured wine. He stirred the mixture with the feather, using its shaft like a stick. Then he laid the feather down and picked up the mortar. He raised it to his lips and drank.

When he lowered it, his pupils were so large they seemed to have swallowed the irises whole. Staring at a spot somewhere over Arvin’s head, Hazzan located the chalice by feel. He gripped it with one hand and dipped the tip of his overly long fingernail into the liquid. Then he began to chant in the same melodious, lilting language he’d used before. When the chant was finished, he stood for several moments, his lips pursed in thought.

Abruptly, his pupils returned to normal. He raised his fingernail from the liquid and snipped the end of it off with the scissors, letting the clipping fall into the potion.

Gonthril leaned forward, an anxious expression on his face. Mortin mirrored his leader’s pose, barely breathing as he waited for Hazzan to speak. Chorl, meanwhile, kept his eyes on Arvin.

“It’s a transformative potion,” the wizard said at last. “With a hint of compulsive enchantment about it. But predominantly transformative.”

“A potion of polymorphing?” Gonthril asked.

Hazzan shook his head. “Nothing so general. Its properties are highly focused. The potion is designed to transform the imbiber into a specific creature, though I can’t identify which. But I can tell you this. Whoever drank