“So… if I sit here and do nothing to rescue Naulg-a friend since my days at the orphanage-a friend who was as grievously wronged by the Pox as I was-” He paused and wet his lips nervously. “I can expect Hoar’s retribution?”

Nicco was smart enough to see exactly where Arvin was going. “I can’t let you leave.”

“I won’t betray the Secession,” Arvin said. “I give you my solemn oath on that-my personal word of honor. You can trust me. I won’t break my ‘thread.’ All I want to do is save my friend.” And myself, he added silently.

Seeing a flicker of indecision in Nicco’s eyes, Arvin pressed his emotional thrust to the hilt. “Chorl doesn’t trust me-he wants me dead. He’s just looking for an excuse to punish me for a crime I haven’t even committed-and nothing either you or Gonthril will say will persuade him that I’m innocent.”

Nicco held up an admonishing finger. “Don’t you think Gonthril knows that?” he asked. “Why do you think Mortin was assigned to guard you? Unfortunately, you awakened early. You weren’t supposed to ‘escape’ until Middark.”

“I get it,” Arvin said slowly. “I was to be a distraction, to draw the militia away from… wherever it is Gonthril and the others have gone.” He thought a moment. “I take it you’re abandoning this hiding place?”

Nicco smiled. “We already have. You and I are the last ones here.”

“So what happens now?” Arvin asked. “Do we sit and wait for Middark?”

Nicco nodded.

“Why not let me go early? I won’t betray the Secession-their interests are my interests. Like them, I want the Pox stopped.”

Nicco sat in silence for a long moment before answering. “Will you agree to let me place a geas on you that will magically seal your oath?”

Arvin hesitated, uncomfortable with the thought of a compulsion spell being placed on him. A geas was dangerous-if you broke its conditions, it could kill you. Was it worth it, just to be on his way a little sooner? Middark wasn’t all that far away. But what if Gonthril changed his mind about Arvin’s usefulness in the meantime, or if Chorl returned?

“Do it,” he said.

Smiling, Nicco rose to his feet. He placed three fingers on Arvin’s mouth and whispered a quick prayer. Arvin felt magic tingle against his lips where Nicco’s fingertips touched them.

Nicco stared into Arvin’s eyes. “You will not reveal any information about the Secession.”

So far, so good. This was what Arvin had expected.

“You will not reveal the names of any members of the Secession,” Nicco continued. “Or provide any description of their appearance, or…”

The terms of the geas were surprisingly thorough-too thorough. Arvin winced as he heard the final part of the oath.

“… or speak the name Osran Extaminos.”

How in the Nine Hells was Arvin going to make his report to Zelia?

24 Kythorn, Evening

The Terrace was busy this time of night. After a hot, humid summer day, Hlondeth’s wealthier citizens were at last relaxing and enjoying themselves in the more bearable temperatures that evening brought. Seated at tables under softly glowing lights, they had a view across the city, with its towers and arches shimmering a faint green, down to the harbor below, where ships crowded together so closely their masts looked like a forest. Beyond them was the Churning Bay.

Arvin, flush with energy after having performed the asana he’d learned from Zelia, watched the slaves who bustled between the tables, trays balanced on one hand above their heads, serving tea and sweets. At last he spotted the slave he wanted to speak to-a young woman with a slight limp. He slipped into a seat at one of the tables she was serving. When she approached, she showed no sign of recognizing him, even though he’d ordered two of Drin’s “special teas” from her just yesterday. She set a small glass on the table in front of him. Inside it was a chunk of honeycomb. Then she asked which of the teas he’d like her to pour.

Arvin glanced over the collection of teapots on her tray and shook his head. “None of those,” he said. “I want a special blend.” He pretended to wave the tray away, but as he did, his fingers added a word, in silent speech: magic.

The slave was good; her expression never changed. “What flavor, sir?”

Arvin dropped his hand to the table, drumming it with his fingers to call her attention to his hand. “Let’s see,” he mused. Need-“Perhaps some mint”-speak-“and chamomile”-Drin-“and a peel of cinnamon.”-now.

“That’s an expensive blend,” the slave countered. “And it will take time to fetch the ingredients.”

“I’m prepared to pay,” Arvin said, tossing a silver piece onto her tray. “And I’m happy to wait. Give me some black tea to sip in the meantime. And I’ll take two of those poppy seed cakes. I’m famished.”

The slave set a teapot and two cakes down on his table and limped away. Arvin sat, sipping the honey-sweet tea. Despite his hunger, he found himself doing little more than nibbling at the cakes. Their taste was every bit as good as always, but somehow they seemed flat and lifeless in his mouth. He had to wash each mouthful down with a hefty gulp of tea.

Waiting in the warm night air was making Arvin lethargic. He closed his eyes, listening to the hum of conversation around him and drinking in the scent from the flower baskets that lined the Terrace. It was a welcome change from the sewer stink he’d been floundering around in lately. He dozed.

A chair scuffed. Arvin opened his eyes to find Drin sitting across the table from him. The potion seller looked worried, as always. His narrow face with its deep vertical grooves between his eyebrows gave him a perpetual frown. His wrists were narrow and his fingers long-that and the slight point to his ears suggested that there might be a wood elf hiding in the branches of his family tree. He smiled at Arvin-a quick twitch of his lips-and leaned forward. “You wanted to speak to me?”

Arvin nodded and spoke in a low voice. “Do you have anything that can undo mind-influencing magic?”

“Clerical magic or wizardry?”

“Neither,” Arvin answered.

Drin’s eyebrows raised. “Then what-”

“Do you know what a psion is?”

Drin gave him a guarded look. “I’ve heard of them. They cast ‘mind magic.’ ”

“That’s right. I want something that will block a psionic power.”

Drin thought a moment. “There’s no ‘tea’ that does that. None that I know of,” he said. He glanced around then dropped his voice to a whisper. “But I think there might be a ring that blocks such spells.”

“Would it work against one that’s already been cast?”

“I’m not sure. It’s not my area of expertise.”

Arvin wet his lips. “Could you obtain a ring like that for me?”

Drin shrugged. “Maybe. But it would take time to find out. The… merchant I need to speak to won’t be back in Hlondeth for at least a month.” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “The druids have been busy.”

Arvin drummed his fingers on the table in frustration. Coming to Drin had been a long shot-a gamble that hadn’t paid off. But perhaps Drin could tell him something about the potion the Pox were using-something that might help Naulg. Assuming Arvin was able to find him again, that was.

“One other thing,” Arvin said. “There’s a ‘tea’ that I’m trying to find out more about. A very rare blend. It comes in an unusual container-a small metal flask that’s shaped like the rattle of a snake. Do you know anything about it?”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t help you,” Drin said. “I’ve never heard of a tea like that.”

The guarded look was back in Drin’s eyes; the potion seller was lying. “Listen, Drin,” Arvin said, dropping his voice to a whisper. “A friend of mine drank some of that tea, and it’s had an… unpleasant effect on him. I’m trying to help him.” Focusing on the potion seller, silently willing him not to leave, Arvin felt the prickle of his psionics coming into play. “All I want is information,” he pleaded. “Just some friendly advice-anything you think might help. I’m willing to pay for it.” He placed ten gold pieces on the table.