Arvin whistled softly, glad the clerics hadn’t seen his raised dagger. He watched as the second cleric placed a gauntleted hand on the rogue’s head and chanted a prayer.
“And the boy?” Arvin asked.
The cleric’s prayer ended. The rogue blinked, looked around with eyes that had been fully restored, and fell to his knees, weeping. His right hand raised above his head, he broke into fervent prayer.
Once again, the man beside him shrugged. “He’ll probably be released, since he seems to have genuinely repented.”
Arvin shook his head, incredulous. “But he’s—” Then he thought better of what he’d been about to say. The young rogue could no more cast off his guild—and its obligations—than he could shed his own skin. But if Arvin said this aloud, the fellow next to him might think back to Arvin’s earlier actions and draw some conclusions that could bode ill for Arvin. It was bad enough that Arvin had drawn his dagger. He should have been more careful and stuck to his psionics. “—a thief,” he concluded.
“Yes,” the man said. As he spoke, he scratched his left elbow with the first two fingers of his right hand—probably the local sign for guild.
Arvin pretended not to see the gesture. The last thing he needed was to get enmeshed in the web of the local rogues’ guild. He clenched his left hand, and the ache of his abbreviated little finger—the one the Hlondeth Guild had cut the tip from—enforced his resolve. This time, he’d stay clean. The whole point in coming to Sespech was to make a fresh start.
“And the gauntlet?” Arvin asked. “Can anyone use it?”
“Anyone. Even thieves. It shields the petitionary from blows, weapons—even spells that cause harm. But not,” the man added with a twinkle in his eye, “against justice. Use it carefully, if you’ve committed a crime.”
“Sound advice,” Arvin replied. “But I don’t intend to commit any.”
He watched as one of the clerics laid a hand on the paralyzed yuan-ti and spoke a prayer. An instant later they both vanished; snowflakes swirled in agitation in the spot their bodies had just occupied. The second cleric touched the young rogue gently on the shoulder then waved him away, dismissing him. Then he, too, teleported away.
The snow continued to fall, dusting the ground with a thin layer of white. The crowd began to disperse. The man beside Arvin shivered. “Need a place to stay, friend?” he asked. “That’s my inn over there: Lurgin’s Lodgings.”
Arvin shook his head. “Thanks, but no. I’m just passing through Mimph. I hope to catch a boat for Ormpetarr this afternoon.”
The man placed a cupped hand over his heart. “As you wish.”
Arvin turned and walked away, still awed by the treatment the yuan-ti had received.
He was going to like it in Sespech.
2
Arvin squinted, trying to peer through the falling snow. He’d never seen it fall so thickly; usually the lands surrounding the Vilhon Reach received no more than a sporadic, wet slush that quickly melted. This winter, however, had seen more than one snowfall like this one; the thick, fluffy snowflakes had piled up ankle-deep.
Despite the snow, the wagon in which Arvin rode was making good time as it crossed the frozen fields east of Mimph—though Arvin wondered how the driver could see where he was going. Arvin could see no more than a few paces in any direction; beyond that was only the occasional dark blur—thin and tall if it was a tree, short and squat if it was a cottage.
The driver, a dwarf with a thick red beard, stared resolutely ahead over the backs of the two horses that drew the wagon. He gave the reins an occasional flick or clucked to the animals, encouraging them to keep up their pace. The only other sounds were the crunch of wheel’s on snow and the tinkling of the tiny bells that hung from the horses’ braided manes. Steam rose from their backs, mingling with the swirling snow.
Arvin tucked the heavy wool blanket tightly around his chest and legs and shivered. He was able to block out discomfort while performing his asanas, but not for a whole afternoon at a stretch. The cold bit at his ears and nose and caused a throbbing ache in his abbreviated little finger, and the snowflakes settling on his shoulders and drifting down into his collar chilled him further. He glanced across at the wagon’s only other passenger, wondering how she could be so comfortable. Her own blanket was loosely draped about her knees, and she wasn’t hugging herself, as Arvin was. Her winter cloak was open at the neck, and she hadn’t bothered to brush away the snowflakes that dusted her long black hair. She stared over Arvin’s shoulder at the snow-blurred landscape that fell away behind them. Judging by her dusky skin, she came from the warm lands to the south and shouldn’t be used to cold. Her breath, like his, fogged the air. Yet she looked as comfortable as i f she were sitting beside a crackling fire. Arvin decided she must have magic that helped her to endure the cold. Maybe that bulge under the glove on her right hand was a magical ring.
Envious though he was, Arvin couldn’t help but glance at her. She was exquisite, with eyes so dark it was difficult to see where pupil ended and iris began, and long lashes that fluttered each time she blinked. Her cheekbones were high and wide, and the hair that framed her face was lustrous and thick, with a slight wave. Arvin imagined brushing it back from her face and letting his fingers linger on the soft skin of her cheek. The riverboat wouldn’t be leaving until tomorrow morning; perhaps she could be persuaded to….
She shifted on the wagon’s hard wooden bench, at last shaking the snowflakes from her hair. Arvin caught a glimpse of an earring in her left ear—a finger-thick plug of jade, its rounded end carved in the shape of a stylized face with drooping, heavy lips. Then her hair covered it again.
Her eyes met Arvin’s. Realizing he was still staring at her, he blushed. “Your earring,” he stammered. “It’s pretty.”
She stared at him for several unnerving moments. Then her gaze shifted to his forehead. “That stone. Is it your clan?” She spoke in the clipped accent of the southern lands, each word slightly abbreviated.
“This?” Arvin touched the lapis lazuli on his forehead. The fingernail-sized chip of stone was a spot of warmth against his chilled skin, joined by magic with his flesh—and joined with his thoughts, when its command word was spoken. He’d put it on as soon once the ship was safely away from Hlondeth and had left it in place since. There didn’t seem to be any reason to hide it anymore. Zelia—the stone’s original owner—was far behind him now, gods be praised.
“It’s just a decoration,” he answered at last.
“I see.” She glanced away, seemingly losing interest.
“You’re from the south?” Arvin asked, hoping to continue the conversation.
She nodded.
“I’m from Hlondeth, myself.”
That got her attention. She studied him a moment. “You are not a yuan-ti.”
“No. My name’s Vin,” he said, using an abbreviation that was as common as cobblestones in Hlondeth. “And yours is… ?”
She paused, as if deciding whether to answer. “Karrell.”
“You’re going to Ormpetarr?” It was an unnecessary question, since the only reason anyone would be taking this wagon would be to reach the riverboats that plied the Lower Nagaflow.
She nodded.
“Me too,” Arvin continued. He plunged into the carefully rehearsed story that would explain his presence in Sespech. “I’m an agent for Mariners’ Mercantile. I hope to encourage Baron Foesmasher to buy from our rope factories. Those new ships he’s building are going to require good strong hemp for their rigging.” He patted the backpack on the seat beside him. “I’ve brought samples of our finest lines to show him.”