Arn woke up groggily and looked at the muddy roof of his hut. He lay in his hammock and tried to remember when he had gone to sleep. He had taken more of the poison, and sat up alarmed—had he gone to sleep because of it? He remembered now, coming out of the fever and deciding, consciously, to sleep off the ache of his body fighting it. Ever since Garem’s visit and his doubled efforts of stealing poison from the hunters’s stores, Arn had begun dosing himself with minimal traces of ashroot poison. He was up to two drips now, instead of one, but it kept him feeling worn out and sore.
He sluggishly stood up from the hammock and paced around the room. Raal was gone already; the fishers set out even earlier than the hunters. Arn checked his stash—he kept his own vial of poison separate and collected a new jar for Garem. He would have enough today, he decided, so he got his hunting gear together. A roll of black paint across his pale face disguised the fever of his body fighting ashroot.
That day they were hunting water scales again. They only did a few times each Moon, but it was good for Arn’s plans. He could take even more than usual. Once again, Crezik went ahead of him, following Torr up the hill out of the village while Arn dabbed poison onto his spear head and into his secret jar.
After a long day of tracking and only a few successful kills across the whole band, they returned to the village with the sunset in their eyes. Fires were already lit, and the trails that wove between grasses and houses smelled of roasting fish and fresh berry jam. Arn stepped into his hut for just long enough to collect his poison—he ignored Raal’s gossiping—and went in search of Garem.
Thankfully, Arn didn’t have to approach the campfire of Garem’s whole family, full of people who were related to the mother and son he had killed many weeks ago. Garem spotted him in one of the large caves, and strode out into the night to watch the last telltale sparks of the sun on the rippling Deep. Garem waited near a large hut on the corner, while Arn approached cautiously.
“Going to tell me who you’re going to poison?” Arn asked.
Garem smiled. “Going to give me some poison?”
Arn shrugged, and pulled out his jar of poison. “This is enough for one kill,” he said. “Maybe two. Give me the information you promised and I’ll give this to you.”
“Of course,” Garem said. “Razaad needs a change-up. Three people are getting poisoned. Logern—who’s only in charge of the fishers by his fingernails now—and Torr are at the top of the list. I’m not alone in this, there’s a few others involved. Third on the list is Malla, the seamstress.”
Garem would kill all their leaders save Stone Spear. There was no clear chief of the crafting band of their village, but Malla was close to it. Stone Spear would be surrounded by people he didn’t know. Not only would that make him vulnerable, but any one of the replacements for those poisoned could be one of Garem’s ilk, whispering ideas into the ear of their aged leader. Either that, or Garem would issue a challenge to Stone Spear—directly or indirectly—and seize the Spear of Razaad.
“Who else is involved in this?” Arn asked, staring at Garem.
The man’s silver-flecked beard quivered as he smiled. Was Garem still strong enough to pick up the rock Spear himself? What was his real plan? “If I tell you that, you sell us out for a much better favour from Stone Spear than I’ve promised you…” Garem grinned at him. He knew the game he was playing, and it was a safe one.
“Then I want a role in this,” Arn replied. He was tense, but tried to keep his cool.
Garem’s smile faded as he considered Arn’s words for a moment. “I will keep that in mind, Arn. There may be a way you can help. Thanks for this.” He held out his hand for the poison and Arn placed the small vial firmly into his palm. Garem opened the jar and took a sniff. He tucked it away in a satchel, and said, “Good. Bring me the rest when you’re able.”