what she’d done to him.
If he was ever going to free himself of the mind seed, he needed to get going.
Arvin stood and put on his backpack. Thankfully, Mortin was still asleep. Moving silently past him, Arvin crept to the door. Not only was it unlocked, but the hinges of the door didn’t creak when he slowly pulled it open. And- Tymora be praised-the hallway beyond it was empty.
Arvin closed the door behind him and let his eyes adjust to the hallway’s gloom. Slipping out of the room had been too easy. Perhaps the Secession were toying with Arvin. Chorl might be just around the bend, happy to have an excuse to kill him.
Wandering the corridors unescorted seemed like an excellent excuse to Arvin.
He summoned his dagger into his gloved hand and crept down the hallway.
The first room he came to was a smaller version of the one he’d just left; through its open door Arvin could see sleeping pallets on the floor. Those in Arvin’s field of view were empty, but the sound of a man’s voice came from inside. It sounded as though he was singing a low, dirgelike hymn.
A lantern in this room was burning brightly, flooding the corridor with light. The doorway reached from floor to ceiling. There was no way for Arvin to sneak past it and not be seen by whoever was inside the room. Unless he had his back to him, of course.
Crouching, he held his dagger just above the floor and moved the blade slowly into the doorway. By tilting it, he could see a reflection of the inside of the room-a narrow, blurry reflection, but one that told him that Tymora’s luck was still with him. The man’s back was indeed to the door. He was bent over someone in a pallet; a moment later Arvin heard a woman’s faint groan. Curious, he risked a peek.
It was Kayla on the pallet. Her face was flushed, her hair damp and tangled. She lay on her back, turning her head back and forth, groaning softly.
The sight sent a chill through Arvin’s blood. Had Kayla succumbed to the disease that had pockmarked the cultists-or some other, even more terrible illness? The fleshy mound she’d fought had been one enormous, pus-filled bag of disease, and she’d been splattered with its fluids-perhaps that was what had laid her low.
Whatever the cause, at least a cleric was tending to her-the man who had his back to Arvin. If the fellow was wearing clerical vestments, however, they were of a faith that Arvin didn’t recognize. They included a black shirt and long gray kilt that was belted with a red sash. Black leather gloves lay on the floor beside him. The cleric’s dark brown hair was plaited in a single braid that hung against his back. One of his hands held Kayla’s; the other was raised above his head. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing a patchwork of blotchy scars, faded to a dull white, on his forearms. They looked like old burn marks.
“Lord of the Three Thunders,” he chanted, lowering his hand to touch Kayla on the forehead. “Free this woman from fever’s grip. Heal her so she may live to carry out your divine justice.”
The healing spell was almost finished. Any moment the cleric might turn around and see Arvin peering into the room. Arvin slipped past the doorway and continued down the corridor.
The rest of the doors he passed were closed. It was only a short distance to the spiraling tunnel that led back to the surface. Arvin wasn’t sure how he was going to get the trapdoor in the gazebo floor open, but he’d deal with that problem when it presented itself.
As he drew near the room where the wizard had analyzed the potion, he heard voices coming from behind its closed door. One was unmistakable: Gonthril’s. He was giving instructions on how the Secession would sneak into a building. Arvin paused to listen, excitement making his heart race. There was a good chance the Secession were planning a raid on wherever the Pox were holed up-Arvin might at last be able to learn where the cultists were hiding. But try as he might, Arvin couldn’t puzzle out which building they were talking about. The only clear detail was that they were going to strike during the very heart of the evening-at Middark.
No matter. Arvin could always wait in the garden above then follow them. Assuming he got that far.
He tiptoed past the door to the wrought-iron gate, which was closed. The room beyond it was in near darkness; the lantern that hung from the ceiling had its wick trimmed low. Arvin gently pulled on the gate. It was indeed locked, as he’d expected. He vanished his dagger into his glove then unfastened his belt. Digging a fingernail into a slot in the tongue of the buckle, he pulled out a hook that clicked into place. Inserting his pick into the hole in the lock plate, he twisted until he felt one pin click back… then a second… then a third…
He grinned as the bolt sprang open. He tried to open the gate…
He couldn’t move.
Not a muscle. His eyes continued to blink and his chest rose and fell-albeit only in short, shallow breaths-and his heart thudded in his chest. But the rest of his body was as still as a statue. Realizing he must have fallen victim to a spell, he strained against it until sweat blossomed on his temples and trickled down his cheeks, but still he couldn’t move.
Stupid. He’d been stupid to think they’d simply let him walk away. He should have paid attention to the warning voice that had told him it was all too easy.
Meanwhile, the voices continued from behind the door. It sounded as though Gonthril was wrapping up the meeting. At any moment, the door would open-and Chorl would have all the excuse he needed to kill Arvin.
Arvin could hear Chorl’s voice coming from behind the door. “I’m in favor,” Chorl growled. “It will send a message to that scaly bitch-that she’s not safe anywhere.”
Another voice-one Arvin didn’t recognize-raised an objection. “I still think we should ambush him in the street.”
“He’ll be on his guard there,” Gonthril answered. “Especially after what happened to the overseer.”
“That was just thieves, trying to steal whatever it was the work crews found in the old tower,” someone else protested.
“Those thieves killed a yuan-ti-one who served the royal family,” Gonthril said. He sighed; Arvin pictured him shaking his head. “The only place he’ll let down his guard now is within the walls of his own home.”
“It’s suicide,” the other man grumbled. “We’ll never get inside.”
“Yes we will,” Gonthril said in a confident voice. “One sip of this and we’ll be able to slip right past the guard. They won’t suspect a thing. They’ll think we’re his little pets, out for a Middark soar. We’ll even have the right markings.”
Suddenly a voice whispered in Arvin’s ear. “I think you’ve heard enough.”
Had Arvin been capable of it, he would have jumped at the touch of a hand on his shoulder. Held frozen by magic, all he could do was wonder who in the Nine Hells had crept up so silently behind him.
He heard a whispered chant, felt momentarily dizzy, and was standing in a room-a brightly illuminated room, next to the pallet on which Kayla lay. Her eyes were closed and her chest rose and fell smoothly. The flush of fever was gone from her face.
Arvin, still unable to move, could feel a hand on his shoulder-that of the person who had just teleported him. He could guess who it was. The cleric. The fellow spoke in a normal tone, no longer whispering. “That was poetic justice, don’t you think?”
The hand fell away from Arvin’s shoulder. Suddenly able to move, Arvin whirled to face the cleric. The green eyes that stared back at him were filled with mirth.
“What do you mean?” Arvin asked.
The cleric tipped his head in the direction of the hallway. As he did, an earring dangling from his left ear flashed in the light; the three silver lightning bolts hanging from it tinkled together. “By unlocking that gate, you locked your own body.”
Understanding dawned on Arvin. “There was a glyph on the gate, wasn’t there?”
The cleric nodded.
Arvin slid a wary glance toward the door to the room and saw that it was shut. It had no visible lock, but he was willing to bet its handle bore a glyph that was similar to the one on the gate he’d just tried. His imagination came up with unpleasant possibilities-turn the handle and have your head turned completely around. Until your neck snapped.
“What happens now?” he asked the cleric.
“We wait.”
“Until…?”
“Until Gonthril and the others have finished their night’s work,” the cleric calmly replied.
“Where are they going?” Arvin asked.
