Venom's Taste - Lisa Smedman [54]
“Gonthril?” Arvin guessed.
The man nodded. The sleeves of his white shirt were rolled up, revealing bare forearms. He, too, had avoided service with the militia. He patted the lock on the gate with his left hand. Rings glittered on every finger of it. No wonder Tanju had mistaken Arvin for Gonthril in the Mortal Coil; he must have assumed the glove was hiding those rings.
“The gate is locked,” Gonthril told Arvin. “You can’t escape.”
Arvin held out his hands. “I have no intention of escaping,” he told Gonthril. “I’m a friend. I came here to ask you about-”
“Don’t try to twist my mind with your words,” Gonthril barked. “I’m protected against your magic. And just in case you’re thinking of slithering out of there…” Letting the threat dangle, he drew a dagger from a sheath at his hip and turned it so it caught the lantern light. The blade glistened as if wet, and was covered with a pattern of wavy lines.
If Gonthril expected a reaction, Arvin must have disappointed him. He stared at the dagger, perplexed. “Am I supposed to know what that is?”
“Go ahead and assume serpent form,” Gonthril said in a low voice. “You’ll find out, soon enough, what the blade does.”
“Serpent form?” Arvin repeated. Then he realized what was going on. Chorl-and now Gonthril-had mistaken him for a yuan-ti.
And they hated yuan-ti.
“You’ve made a mistake,” Arvin told the rebel leader, wetting his lips nervously. “I’m as human as you are.”
“Prove it.”
Gonthril, standing just a few short paces away, must be able to see that Arvin had round pupils, but obviously believed that Arvin’s clothes hid patches of snake skin or a tail. Realizing what he had to do, Arvin slowly began shedding his clothing. He started with the belt that held his empty sheath, letting it fall to the ground, then kicked off his boots. Shedding his shirt and trousers and at last tugging off his glove, he stood naked. Arms raised, he turned in a slow circle, letting Gonthril inspect him. He finished by briefly sticking out his tongue, to show that it was not forked.
“Satisfied?” he asked.
“I see you’ve had a run-in with the Guild,” Gonthril observed.
“Fortunately, only one,” Arvin said, picking up his glove and pulling it back on. Gonthril seemed to be finished with his inspection, so Arvin continued to dress.
When Arvin was done, Gonthril pulled something from his pocket and tossed it into the room-a ring. It tinkled as it hit the floor near Arvin’s feet.
“Put it on,” Gonthril instructed.
Arvin stared at it. The ring was a wide band of silver set with deep blue stones. He recognized them as sapphires-something he shouldn’t have been able to do, since he didn’t know one gemstone from another. “What does the ring do?” he asked.
“Put it on.”
Arvin wet his lips. He could guess that the ring was magical and was reluctant to touch it, even though Gonthril had just done so. Still, what choice did he have? He needed to convince Gonthril that he was a friend-or at least that he was neutral-if he ever wanted to get any information out of him. He bent down to pick up the ring. No sooner did his fingertips brush its cool metal than it blinked into place on his forefinger. Startled, he tried to yank it off, but the ring wouldn’t budge.
Gonthril smiled. “Now then,” he said. “What were you doing in the sewers?”
Arvin found his mouth answering for him. “Looking for Naulg.”
“Who is Naulg?”
Arvin was unable to stop the words that came out in short, jerky gulps. “A friend. We met years ago. When we were both boys. At the orphanage.”
“What was he doing in the sewers?”
“He was captured. By the Pox. The clerics with the flasks. They made him drink from one. As a sacrifice to their god. They made me drink from one, too.”
“Did they?” Gonthril’s eyes glittered.
“Yes,” Arvin gulped, forced by the ring to answer the question, even though it had obviously been rhetorical.
“What happened