“It wasn’t my idea,” the fellow whined. He jerked his head at the rogue who lay dying in the hall. “Lewinn was the one who wanted to cut you out of the deal. He said we could keep the diamonds for ourselves. I said, ‘No, Lewinn, we should deal fairly with the mind mage,’ but he wouldn’t listen. He—”
“Shut up,” Arvin said.
Greasy Hair did.
The wounded rogue exhaled one last, gurgling breath then was still. Arvin grabbed his ankles and dragged him inside the room. He eased the door shut—so far, the other occupants of the inn hadn’t reacted to the sounds of the fight, and he wanted to keep it that way—then knelt beside Glisena. Her eyes were closed, but her chest rose and fell evenly. Arvin lightly patted her cheek and called her name, but she didn’t wake up.
“What have you done to her?” Arvin asked.
“She’s drugged,” Greasy Hair answered. His voice matched the mental voice Arvin had listened in on earlier, when the skinny rogue had forced him into the cooper’s workshop.
Arvin frowned down at Glisena. “How did—”
“It was Lewinn’s idea,” Greasy Hair interrupted. “He posed as the innkeeper and brought her the ale, and—”
“How did you know she was here?” Arvin asked, glad he’d resisted the urge to drink.
“Lewinn spotted her, looking out the window. That’s how we knew you had her.” Greasy Hair paused. A too-innocent expression appeared on his face. “Listen, mind mage, the diamonds are in my pocket. Untie me, and I’ll give them to you. The diamonds for the girl, just like we agreed, and our dealings will be over. All right?”
Arvin ignored him. He stood, thinking. Doubtless it had happened just the way Greasy Hair described. But how had Glisena wound up in Karrell’s room?
It was possible—though it bordered on the miraculous—that Zelia had found a way to spirit Glisena out of the palace in the time it had taken Arvin to walk back to the inn. Could she have found a way past the wards and plucked Glisena out from under the very eyes of nine powerful clerics—ten, counting Marasa—and a watchful baron?
Possible, but hardly likely.
Unless Karrell had been the one to get Glisena out.
Karrell looked human enough; maybe she’d fooled the wards. And she had access to the palace. She might have been able to charm the clerics, to steal Glisena away and bring her here, to the room at the inn.
Whatever was going on, Arvin needed to get Glisena out of here.
Scooping the mug of ale off the table, he grabbed the rogue’s greasy hair and wrenched his head back. “Drink it,” he growled.
Greasy Hair struggled to wrench his head aside. “The diamonds aren’t really in my pocket,” he gasped. “But I can get them for you. Let me—”
Arvin poured the ale down his throat.
The man sputtered then swallowed. His eyes glazed then rolled—and he went limp.
Arvin pricked the fellow’s arm with his dagger: no response. Greasy Hair wasn’t feigning unconsciousness. Arvin spoke the command word that re-knotted the monkey’s fist and shoved it back in his pocket. Then he reached inside his shirt for the brooch the baron had given him. He pinned it to the front of the thin rogue’s shirt, where it was sure to be spotted. That would give Naneth something to puzzle over, if she came to claim Glisena and found one of the “baron’s men” dead on the floor, next to an unconscious rogue.
Arvin removed the ice dagger’s sheath from the dead rogue’s belt, slid the weapon into it, and tucked it into his boot. Then he bent down and carefully picked up Glisena.
She was lighter than he’d expected—and cooler; her body no longer radiated heat. The drug the rogues had tricked her into drinking must have dampened her fever. It also seemed to have quieted the demon. Glisena’s bulging stomach pressed up against Arvin’s; he could no longer feel the demon kicking.
Arvin crept down the stairs, Glisena in his arms. He eased open the door at the bottom and peered out into the street. The street was deserted, except for a lone figure far down the block, walking toward the inn. Something about the person made Arvin uneasy; a second glance told him he’d been right to trust his instincts. The person moved with a swaying motion that instantly told Arvin her race: yuan-ti.
Zelia.
And she was moving toward the inn. Had she spotted him?
Arvin closed the door and hurried in the only other direction available: through the inn’s common room, which had closed for the night. With Glisena in his arms, he wound his way between the tables, toward the inn’s front door. Once again he looked cautiously outside. This time the street was empty.
Arvin hurried up the street. As he ran, slipping on patches of slush, he activated the lapis lazuli and visualized the one person he’d not yet contacted with it today who might be able to help: Marasa. Her face came into focus in his mind at once: drawn, worried-looking, and pale. Her left hand was raised, evoking Helm; her lips moved in prayer. Her eyes widened as a mental image of Arvin formed in her mind’s eye.
