“He said he collects art, not weapons.”
“This is both.” Tarsus turned to face me. “I want you to verify its authenticity. Handle it. Check the metallurgy. Confirm the poison channels are original and not modern additions.”
I looked at the bench. No protective equipment. No containment field. Just the blade, exposed to air.
“I’ll need gloves,” I said. “And a spectrometer. Nerath poison can be absorbed through skin contact.”
“I’m aware.” His tone stayed level. “But I’ve been told this particular dagger has been deactivated. The poison channels were flushed decades ago. It’s perfectly safe to handle.”
“Who told you that?”
“The dealer.”
“And you trust them?”
He went very still. “I trust your expertise. Which is why I’m asking you to verify their claims. Unless you’re questioning my judgment?”
The trap closed around me. Refuse, and I questioned his authority. Comply, and I risked poison exposure. Either way, I lost.
“I’m not questioning your judgment,” I said carefully. “I’m ensuring accuracy. If you want authentication, I need proper equipment. That’s standard protocol.”
“Protocol.” He picked up the dagger himself, holding it by the hilt. No gloves. No hesitation. “Sometimes protocol is just cowardice. I’m holding it right now. Do I look poisoned?”
“Nerath poisons have variable activation times. Some work in seconds. Others take hours.”
“Then you’d better start now.” He set the dagger back on the bench and stepped aside. “Authenticate it. I have Mr. Korven arriving in twenty minutes, and I want to show him something impressive.”
I stared at the dagger. Green tint on the blade. Poison channels clearly visible in the metal. No way to know if they’d been flushed without proper testing.
Flinx sent from across the room.
“I need equipment,” I said again.
“You have twenty minutes.” Tarsus moved to the door. “I’m going to change. When I return, I expect a full authentication report. Don’t disappoint me, Curator.”
He left.
I stood alone in the lab, looking at the dagger, calculating probabilities. Tarsus had held it without protection. Either the dealer was right and the poison had been flushed, or Tarsus would start showing symptoms within the next few hours.
Or he was wearing a dermal barrier I couldn’t see. Or he’d built up immunity. Or the poison had a delayed reaction timer designed to kill whoever handled it second.
Too many variables. Not enough information.
Flinx warned.
Of course he was. This wasn’t about authentication. This was about obedience. About proving I’d follow orders even when those orders might kill me.
Six years. Six years of specific, cold cruelty.
I reached for the dagger.
The door opened.
Brevan Korven stepped into the lab, looking apologetic. “I’m sorry, I know I’m early. The attendant said the senator was expecting me, and I...” He trailed off, seeing me. Seeing my hand extended toward the blade. “Curator. What are you doing?”
“My job.” I didn’t pull my hand back.
“That’s a Nerath ceremonial dagger.” He moved closer, his casual collector’s interest gone. His voice dropped. “Those poison channels are functional.”
