Venom's Taste - Lisa Smedman [69]
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,