Venom in Her Veins (30 page)

Alaia chanted softly, and Krailash heard the words “spirit,” “moon,” and “shadow” in an old tongue, a moment before a curtain of glimmering lights and mist appeared, settling over them like dew upon morning
flowers, and then vanishing from sight. “We are concealed,” Alaia whispered, “though only from sight, so try to keep quiet.”

Krailash nodded, and they crept closer to the mushroom fields. The blobby rows of fungus smelled strongly of old wet socks and intestinal distress; at least they didn’t have to worry about any of the especially sensitive slaves
smelling
their intrusion. Krailash paused, and pointed toward a low structure on the far side of the field. They had to go the long way, because cutting through the mushroom field would leave a swath of destruction that would certainly be noticed, and the slowness of their progress was maddening. They paused while a derro dressed in black leather and holding a cruelly-knotted whip stopped to help up a quaggoth who’d collapsed with exhaustion not three feet away from Krailash and Alaia. The derro murmured solicitously, helped the reeking, hairy beast man—which was easily two feet taller than the derro overseer—to its feet, gave it a long drink of water from his own canteen, and patted the quaggoth on the back. The slave bent down to pick up its gathering basket, and while its back was turned, the derro overseer drew a wickedly curved knife as long as its own forearm and jammed it into the quaggoth’s back, where the kidneys would be on a human. Krailash winced as the quaggoth roared, reared back, and then fell among the mushrooms. The derro overseer nudged the body with his foot, then strode off across the field shouting orders.

Krailash and Alaia continued, finally drawing close enough to see the holding pens clearly.

“Are those made of wood?” Alaia whispered. “Where would they get so much wood down here?”

Krailash shook his head. “Bone. They’re made of bone.” The slave pens were vast, long, low cages of lashed-together bones bulit up against one wall of the huge cavern. The cages were apparently divided into compartments by race, presumably to keep the more inimical varieties of slaves from killing one another. The kuo-toa compartment was backed against a dirty waterfall, so a cascade of water flowed through, and a few of the fish people huddled under the spray in a desultory way. As they watched, a pair of quaggoth slaves dragged the body of their recently-murdered comrade to the compartment of their race, and hurled the dead body in through the doors. The quaggoth inside fell upon the corpse and began tearing it apart for food. Alaia gagged at the smell, and Krailash didn’t blame her. Weren’t the quaggoths supposed to be natural shamans, with a connection to the primal world of the caverns? If so, seeing them brought so low and forced into servitude to creatures who venerated aberrations must be especially painful for Alaia.

“I don’t see any humans,” Krailash whispered, fearing the worst. What if all Zaltys’s family had been killed long ago? Most of these other slaves were natural inhabitants of the Underdark, and probably better suited to the harshness of life there.

“I didn’t expect to,” Alaia whispered back. “But do you see Zaltys, or Julen? I don’t—” She paused, and stopped breathing, and Krailash looked at her with alarm. “No,” she whispered. “No, it can’t be.”

“What?” Krailash said, looking around for an enemy, and seeing none—or, at least, none that also saw
him
.

“The flowers,” Alaia murmured, and raised her finger, pointing.

Krailash hadn’t noticed before, but there were vines climbing up the wall of the cave, vanishing into the darkness above. They were covered in the familiar brilliant blue flowers that formed the foundation of the Serrat family’s power—terazul. “But that’s good,” Krailash said. “If there are terazul vines here, then the Guardians will definitely send a detachment to wipe out the derro, just to protect the monopoly.”

“The roots,” Alaia said. “Krailash, look at the
roots
.”

That would be something to see. No one on the surface had ever managed to pull up a terazul vine by the roots, they simply went too deep. Perhaps because they originated here, and the vines had only wound their inexorable way up to the surface over time. Krailash knew what Alaia must be thinking—perhaps a terazul vine transplanted with the roots intact would be more successful than mere cuttings were, and might be grown in a Delzimmer hothouse without losing its potency.

Krailash ran his eyes down along the course of the vines. The spread-out tendrils gradually drew together into a twisted central mass as thick as a tree trunk, which ran along the cavern wall in a roughly horizontal way until finally terminating in one of the blue-green spheres of twisting light. The vines emerged from that light. Wherever the roots took hold, it wasn’t in their world.

“Terazul are flowers of the Far Realm,” Alaia said, and her voice was like the sound of spring ice giving way
beneath your feet. “I have devoted my life to spreading poison from a realm of madness.”

Zaltys raised her crossbow, loading in a bolt, and the guards by the door stirred, but Iraska said “Wait” in a commanding tone. “You wouldn’t shoot me, would you, Zaltys?” she said. “You don’t even know if I have an antidote.”

Zaltys swallowed. She hadn’t even thought of it—the instinctive reaction to attack someone who hurt her family had been too strong. Of course, the person she proposed to attack
also
claimed to be her family, but she felt more loyalty to the cousin who’d tried to help her than to the multiply-great-aunt who’d poisoned him. “Well? Is there an antidote?”

“No, but it’s hardly necessary.” She poured the contents of her cup into the pool. “The poison wears off after a few hours, actually. Usually that’s not a problem—we just include doses of the drug in the water rations we give to the especially savage and dangerous crop-slaves. We don’t bother giving it to all of our field workers, just the ones who have difficulty adjusting to the reality of their lives. Most of our captives are too broken-willed after a few days in the slave pens to cause us any problems.”

Zaltys looked at the cup in her other hand, and flung it at Iraska, who stepped neatly out of the way. The cup fell into the pool with a splash. “You poisoned me too? I don’t feel anything. And you drank from the same pitcher, so why don’t you …?”

She shrugged. “You and I are naturally immune to this poison, and many others. Julen, being merely human, has no such immunities. You see, my dear, you’re like me. You’re yuan-ti.”

Zaltys stared at her. “I knew derro were crazy. I should have known their leader would be crazy. You say you’re a yuan-ti, and I am too? Are you sure I’m not a minotaur? Or a purple dragon? Maybe you’re a grell.”

Iraska returned to her desk, seemingly unconcerned by the crossbow pointed at her. She settled down into her chair and leaned back, gazing at Zaltys. “They call us purebloods, Granddaughter. To your human ear that probably makes it sound like you and I should be exalted, I know, but yuan-ti see things differently. For people so closely related to snakes, being
low
is a virtue, and being raised high is nothing to be happy about. The most powerful of our race are called anathema, and those called abominations are also highly respected. Purebloods … Well, some see us as gifts from Zehir, admittedly. Tools of conquest. Others consider us shameful throwbacks. There is human—or, anyway, humanoid—ancestry among the yuan-ti, and occasionally that strain is especially strong, and a yuan-ti is born seeming almost human. But there’s always some telltale sign, some hint of the serpentfolk blood—a forked tongue, slit eyes, something. You’ve seen my fangs. When I lived among the humans, I had them filed down, but they grew back. How about you, Zaltys? Do you have anything like that? Perhaps a scar where a tail was removed? A patch of scales under your armpit?”

Though she didn’t consciously will it, Zaltys’s hand reached behind and touched the place at the small of her
back where her skin was scarred, the place that always itched on her trips to the jungle, the site of the “fungal infection” that had to be periodically burned by the Serrat family chirurgeons with heated blades to keep it sanitized.

“Haven’t you noticed an affinity with snakes? If you’re with the Serrat family’s Travelers—which is hilarious for reasons I’ll explain once I have you settled in here—then you spend a lot of time in the jungle. Have you ever been bitten by a snake? Of course not. Because they recognize you …” she gave another hideous smile, “as family. And if you had been bitten, you wouldn’t have suffered any ill effects. The yuan-ti are bringers of poison. We are seldom poisoned. Do snakes, perhaps, follow you around? Look, there’s one now, it followed you in from upstairs, didn’t it?”

Zaltys looked at the pale serpent, which was apparently sleeping not far from Iraska’s desk. “It can’t be,” she said softly. “I can’t be. Yuan-ti are
monsters
. They do evil. I’m not evil.”

Iraska clucked her tongue. “You’re looking at it all wrong. Yuan-ti are the superior race, beset on all sides by implacable enemies who refuse to embrace the true faith—including heretics of our own race who embrace the doddering, outdated god Sseth instead of the vigorous Zehir. Our serpentine relatives don’t commit acts of evil—they commit acts of necessity. Is it evil to step on a scorpion before it stings you? Is it evil to swat a fly because it annoys you? You’re with the Travelers. That means you cut a swath of fire and sharpened iron through the jungle on a regular basis, displacing native creatures, destroying
native fauna, all for your own purposes—is that
evil
? Of course not. It’s just self-interest. And the Serrat family? Ha. They spread poison on a scale most yuan-ti can only
dream
of, and what’s more, the people they poison willingly pay for the privilege!”

“Don’t talk about my family that way. You don’t know anything
about
them!”

Iraska’s eyes glittered in the torchlight. “I wouldn’t say that. I knew your great-grandfather, a bit. From your adopted family, I mean. He was a thug and a thief and a smuggler. Not a bad sort, for a human.”

“He was brave and resourceful, and he built a business from nothing.”

“He was reckless, which isn’t the same as brave. And resourceful, I’ll grant you that, but it was really just one resource: terazul. The first employees in that business he built were paid in terazul powder. Or should I say ‘enslaved.’ The man had a magistrate addicted to the stuff, and certain key officials, and even a few lesser members of the four great families of Delzimmer, who fed him the information he needed to succeed in business and politics. Because in Delzimmer, business
is
politics.

“I was a spy in Delzimmer, you see, for the yuan-ti in this part of the jungle. The wealthy merchants of Delzimmer thought I was a highborn lady from across the jungle—jumped-up shopkeepers always crave the attention of
real
royals, you see, and my coloration, which you share, was considered quite exotic. Things were going well for me too—indeed, I was the mistress of a high-placed merchant, and since his wife was dying of a slow wasting disease, courtesy of my deftness with
poisons, I was poised to become a power myself in time. Unfortunately, your great-grandfather decided to engage in a little covert assassination to seize some of my lover’s business interests at a reduced price, and once my patron was dead, his sick wife no longer tolerated my existence. I was suddenly homeless, and most decidedly unwelcome. I’d gone from beloved courtesan to cast-off trollop—so turns the wheel of fortune. I crawled back to the jungle in disgrace. So
yes
, Zaltys—I know your family. If we’re comparing evil for evil, it’s hard to say whether the yuan-ti or the Serrat would win.”

Zaltys wasn’t crying, but it was a near thing. She was still holding the crossbow, but she wasn’t aiming it at anything anymore. She kneeled down by Julen and began stroking his hair. He was breathing, slowly and steadily. That was a comfort, at least. “I’m human. I
feel
human. You’re trying to trick me. That’s your nature too. Yuan-ti are treacherous liars and—”

Iraska waved her hand and reclined in her desk chair. “Don’t be silly. I don’t consider myself a yuan-ti anymore. Oh, I am, by birth, like you, but just as you’ve been adopted into the Serrat family—a family of liars, I might add, who’ve obviously conspired heroically to keep your true origins from you, but that’s neither here nor there—just as you’ve become a human by association, I’ve more or less become a derro. Although,” she leaned forward, and stage-whispered, “I just consider them a means to an end. You see, when I returned from Delzimmer, carrying with me nothing but the clothes on my back and a few jewels that proved to be simply worthless shiny rocks in the jungle, I was horrified by what I saw. My sect was ailing when I left,
and the hope was that my influence in Delzimmer could turn things around, bring us new human cultists and more resources, but even if I’d succeeded, we were beyond help. The anathema are precious to the god Zehir, and they’re formidable creatures, but they’re also prone to getting out of control. Ours had finally gone mad and killed almost everyone. Whether anyone
could
have stopped it was a moot point. The anathema are the most holy ones, chosen by our god, and so no one dared raise a hand against it. The old monster finally crawled into a hole and fell asleep, sated after eating half the tribe, and some enterprising low priest had a great heavy stone lid put on top of the hole, so the anathema could be revered from a safe distance, with sacrifices thrice daily. Pathetic. We were a mighty cult once, a power growing in the jungle, ready to burst out and spread our worldview with treachery and knives, but no more. I’d lived among humans long enough to gain a taste for the finer things, and the yuan-ti seemed hopelessly provincial, not to mention religiously obsessed. And why? Why revere a god who doesn’t pay attention to you, who gives life to a great sentient conglomeration of snakes and then lets it
eat
you for no reason? Mind you, I wasn’t the favorite daughter of the tribe, either, partly because I spoke my mind, mostly because I’m an ape-face. That’s what they call people like us—at least, once we fail the cult, and no longer rate any respect. ‘Ape-face.’ Lovely, isn’t it?”