“Are you human?” he asked at last.
“Yes.”
The first two fingers of Gonthril’s right hand crossed in a silent question: Guild?
“Yes.” The ring jerked a further admission out of him: “But I don’t want to be.”
That made Gonthril smile. He nodded at Arvin’s gloved hand. “Given the way they treat their people, I don’t blame you.” Then came another question: “Who are you working for now?”
Arvin could feel his lips and tongue starting to produce a z sound, but somehow the answer-Zelia-got stuck in his throat. “Myself,” he told Gonthril. “I work for myself.”
“Are you a member of House Extaminos?”
“No.”
“How do you feel about the yuan-ti?”
Arvin didn’t need the ring to answer that one honestly. “I don’t like them much, either.”
That made Gonthril smile a second time. “Why did you come here?”
“I wanted to talk to you. To learn more about the cultists. I thought you might be able to tell me something. Something that would help me save my friend. Like where I can find the cultists.”
Gonthril shrugged. “On that point, your guess is as good as mine.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small metal flask-either the one Kayla had recovered from the cultist, or one exactly like it. “Do you know what’s inside this?” he asked.
Arvin shuddered. “Yes. Poison. Mixed with plague.”
“You drank it, and it didn’t kill you?”
Arvin found himself paraphrasing what Zelia had told him. “I have a strong constitution. The plague was driven out of my body. Talona was unable to claim me.”
Gonthril stared at Arvin, a speculative look on his face. “Interesting,” he said. “You called her clerics by a name-the Pox. Tell me what you know about them.”
Arvin summed up what little information he had, concluding with, “They’re a cult. Of Talona. They want to kill everyone in the city.”
“How?”
“By tainting the public fountains. With what’s in those flasks.”
“When?”
“I don’t know. Soon, I think.”
“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.