They penetrated the walls of the inn. Following them with his consciousness, Arvin quested about mentally, looking for the distinctive disturbances that accompanied the use of psionics. He found none. At the moment, Zelia was not manifesting any of her powers.
Thus reassured, Arvin shifted his consciousness away from his throat and into a spot at the base of his scalp. Energy awakened there with a prickling that raised the hairs on the back of his neck as he manifested a second psionic power. Once again, the silver sparkles erupted around him. He sent his consciousness into the inn a second time, searching, this time, for thoughts. He skipped lightly from one patron of the inn to the next. Strangely, he could not locate Karrell—had she left the inn without Arvin spotting her? But Zelia’s mind, powerful as it was, rose above the others. Catching his breath, he listened.
She wasn’t thinking about him. Instead her thoughts were focused, impatiently, on someone she was waiting for: a male—someone who couldn’t come inside the inn, for some reason. This someone probably wouldn’t arrive for another day or so, given the unusually snowy weather. She was stuck here until he arrived, and she wasn’t happy about it. But all she could do was wait. He would send her a message as soon as he was in the vicinity of—
Arvin felt Zelia’s thoughts jerk to a sudden halt. There was a faint tinkling noise at the edges of her awareness—the secondary display of the power Arvin was manifesting. Zelia focused on it. Someone was trying to contact her. Was it—?
Instantly, Arvin disengaged. He scrambled away from the Eelgrass Inn, putting as much distance between himself and Zelia as possible. The power that allowed a psion to detect manifestations in his or her vicinity had a limited range, typically no more than twenty paces. Likewise the power that allowed a psion to detect thoughts—a power Zelia also had.
Only after he’d slipped and staggered through the snow and put a hundred paces between himself and the inn did Arvin slow to a walk. Panting, he looked nervously around. That had been close. “Nine lives,” he whispered, touching the crystal that hung at his throat. The power stone, a gift from his mother, was long since used up. He wore it on a thong about his throat for sentimental reasons only. But old habits died hard.
Listening in on Zelia’s thoughts had nearly alerted her to his presence. It had been worth it, though. It seemed that Zelia’s presence here was a coincidence. She wasn’t looking for him. Not yet, anyway.
Unfortunately, Arvin had gleaned neither a name nor a description of the fellow Zelia was waiting for. Now he had to watch out not only for Zelia, but for her ally, as well. But at least it sounded as if the fellow wouldn’t be here tonight. Arvin could take a room at an inn, wait until just before dawn, then slip aboard a riverboat and be out of here, leaving Zelia behind.
Of course, that didn’t mean that she wouldn’t drop whatever she was doing and come slithering after Arvin, once she learned that he wasn’t dead, after all. Which she would quickly realize, if Karrell mentioned the name “Vin” and “rope” within earshot of Zelia.
If only Arvin knew which room Karrell was staying in, he might be able to prevent her from giving him away. One charm—let’s see how she liked being on the receiving end—would see to that. Trouble was she didn’t seem to be in the Eelgrass Inn. And he couldn’t very well go around using his psionics to search for her. That would be certain to attract Zelia’s attention. It would be like dangling a live mouse in front of a snake. No, it would be better to save his psionic energies in case he needed to mount a defense against Zelia—futile though that defense would be.
If Zelia did discover him, Arvin was a dead man. He knew Zelia nearly as well as she knew herself. The mind seed that had been lodged in his head for six days had seen to that. If there was one thing Zelia savored, it was vengeance. Exacting it upon a human who had thwarted her would be especially sweet. She’d stop at nothing to obtain it. Not to mention the fact that he knew more about her—and her secret dealings—than anyone else in Hlondeth, save perhaps, for Lady Dediana. Arvin knew a number of details that Zelia would kill to keep secret: the identities of several of the mind seeds that served as her spies, for example.
He toyed, for a brief moment, with the thought of sneaking into Zelia’s room. He could lay in wait for her, attack her when and where she least expected it. But he quickly rejected that idea. The last time he’d tried to get the drop on Zelia, he’d failed miserably, even after springing several magical surprises on her—surprises he didn’t have at his disposal, this time. No, he’d do better to sneak away, instead, and pray—pray hard—that Zelia would finish her business at Riverboat Landing and depart without ever knowing that their paths had crossed.
At least, Arvin thought, he had one thing in his favor if Zelia did find him: the power that Tanju had taught him, shortly before Arvin had departed for Sespech. Using it, Arvin could link the fates of any two individuals. While it was active, if one was injured, the other would be, too. If one died, so would the other. Or, at the very least—in the case of extremely powerful spellcasters or magical creatures—the other would be seriously reduced in power.
Knowing that Zelia would be severely debilitated or even die if she killed him was cold comfort, but it was the best he could do. Her powers were vastly superior to his; the defenses he’d learned would only hold her off for so long. But if he could link their fates, it would at least give him some bargaining time.
Keeping a wary eye on the Eelgrass Inn, Arvin made his way to the inn farthest from it to book a room for the night. He’d have to rise just before dawn in order to sneak aboard the riverboat, but he didn’t think he was going to have any problem with that.
He doubted he was going to get much sleep.
3
With a lurch that caused the hard, lumpy ingots of iron Arvin had been lying on to shift, the riverboat got under way. The cargo hold was nearly full; the deck was a mere palm’s width above Arvin’s face. Footsteps thudded across it, loud above the constant rush of water past the hull. Arvin, lying in darkness, shivered and tried to flex numbed fingers and toes. The temperature had hovered around the freezing point even after the sun came up, and he was chilled to the bone.
He lay just below one of the smaller hatches, its edges outlined with thin morning sunlight. As footsteps passed over him once more, making the deck creak, he awakened the energy that lay coiled at the base of his scalp and manifested the power he’d used the night before.
Silver sparkles flared around him then disappeared. He sent his awareness upward, through the deck, and sent it questing through the minds of the people who were aboard the boat. He dipped briefly into the thoughts of a sailor who was gripping the riverboat’s tiller—how much better it was, this fellow was thinking, to sail aboard a boat as a free man—and into those of a second sailor who was serving as lookout. Perched high on the mast, this second fellow was awed by the speed at which the riverboat was traveling. It was only his tenth trip south, and yet he’d been chosen as lookout, due to his keen eyesight. The thought filled him with pride.
There were also two guards on board—one half-asleep as he leaned on one of the deck-mounted crossbows, the second tense as a spring and gleefully visualizing sending a bolt into attacking slavers. Idly watching them was the captain, a man whose mind wasn’t on his duties. Instead his thoughts were lingering on the woman he’d lain with last night as he tried to recall her name.
The thoughts of the next man were much more interesting. His mind was focused intently upon the wind that was driving the boat along. He was controlling its intensity with a spell. Unlike the others on board, he thought in terms of sound and tactile sensation. Though he was directing the wind against the sail, there was no accompanying picture in his mind. He thought of the sail in terms of a taught canvas under his hand, of the creak of its yard as it shifted under the wind. He must, Arvin realized with some surprise, be blind.