When it was done, Arvin lay on his back on warm, sweat-soaked soil, his forked tongue savoring the taste of blood on his lips. He smiled, satisfied that there would be no one to tell his guilty secret-that he felt an unnatural attraction toward an inferior race. A heavy body lay across him; he shoved it to the side. Then he assumed snake form and slithered off into the night, leaving the tangled remains of his lovemaking cooling on the ground behind him.

Arvin’s eyes sprang open as he was wakened by the urgency in his loins. He found himself lying on a straw pallet in a dimly lit room. A pace or two away, Mortin sat with his back against the wall, eyes closed, his sword on the floor beside him. For a moment, as Arvin stared at the handsome young man, dream and waking seemed to blend. Had he really just mated with Mortin and killed him? No… Mortin was still breathing; he’d merely fallen asleep. He was a member of the Secession, not a reveler, and he was guarding Arvin-though he was doing a poor job of it.

Arvin sat up, rubbing his temples. The headache that had been plaguing him was back again, despite his sleep. Doing his best to ignore it-and the unsettling dream-he forced his mind to the here and now. He was human, he told himself-and male-not a lustful yuan-ti female, as he’d been in the dream.

A yuan-ti female with the power to work magic with a mere thought.

Zelia.

Arvin cursed softly. Had the mind seed caused him to listen in on her thoughts again in his sleep? It seemed strange that, once again, he had picked up her memories, rather than her thoughts about more pressing matters, but maybe that was the way yuan-ti minds worked. Maybe all that lazy basking in the sun prompted them to dwell on the past, rather than the current moment.

Speaking of which, what time of day was it? Arvin’s visit to the wizard had been around Sunrise. Afterward, Gonthril had given him a meal and some wine to wash it down. He’d even returned Arvin’s backpack-after a thorough inspection of its contents by Hazzan, who seemed fascinated by Arvin’s trollgut rope. Then Arvin had curled up to sleep, alone in the room except for Mortin, who had remained behind to keep a watch on him.

It must have been well into Fullday. The need Arvin felt to relieve himself told him that he’d slept a long, long time. As he yawned, a suspicion started to dawn in his mind, fueled by the grogginess he felt. He’d been drugged. Maybe that was why only Mortin had been left to watch him-Gonthril had expected Arvin to sleep much longer than he did. If it weren’t for the wild dream that had jolted him into wakefulness, Arvin might have slumbered for some time still.

As he sat on his pallet, thinking, he noticed he was swaying back and forth. Not only that, but he was wetting his lips again. His tongue felt shorter and thicker than it should have been… no, than it had been during the dream, he corrected himself. The stray thought alarmed him. The mind seed was still firmly rooted, despite the fact that Hazzan had cast a dispelling on him. Was there no way to get the gods-cursed thing out of his head?

He hissed as anger frothed inside him. Anger at the Pox for what they’d done to Naulg and their other victims. Anger at Osran Extaminos for inviting the cultists into the city. And, most especially, anger at Zelia for 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…