I know what that looks like too.
Venom sickness. Self-toxicity. Scales die first, then the nerves.
He’ll be dead in months. Maybe less.
I leave the crowd.
He watches me approach, his gold eyes flat and guarded, the vertical slits of his pupils contracting as I get closer. I stop two feet away and look up; he’s tall enough that I have to crane my neck.
Up close the deterioration is worse, five or six dull patches with two more starting along his jaw. The tremor isn’t just in his hands. His whole body carries a fine vibration, a system that’s run too hot for too long.
“You’re dying,” I say.
The scales along his throat shift, tightening against each other.
“Without intervention, I’d guess you have four to six months.”
He stares at me. I stare back.
“Who are you?” His voice is low and rough, a vibration that sits in the chest.
“Ruelle. Formerly of the Arrenval guild.” He doesn’t react. “Poisoner.”
He waits for more. I don’t give it to him.
“I’ve read what there is to read about your species. You need someone who understands what’s killing you.”
He doesn’t respond for a long time. His eyes move over me, the road-worn boots, the thin jacket, the pack on the floor that holds everything I own.
“What do you want?”
“Somewhere to go. A door that stays open. And access to the most interesting venom I’ve ever seen in a living specimen.”
I look at his throat, where the deterioration is creeping along the gland line. I catch myself staring. I look back at his eyes, and I don’t apologize.
“Buy me at the auction. I’ll address the venom problem. You provide shelter.”
“You’re offering to fix me?”
“I’m offering to try. Nobody else in this room can.”
Something shifts in his face. Not a smile; Ophidian facial structure doesn’t lend itself to smiling. Something close to it.
“How much?” he says.
“However much it takes. Though I’ll be honest, the bidding probably won’t be competitive.”
I pick up my pack, turn, and walk back toward the holding pen. Behind me I hear him make a sound. Not a laugh. Something close to it, broken at the edges.
The auctioneer’s assistant looks up when I reappear. “Long privy break,” she says.
“Digestive issues. Don’t ask.” I look toward the block. “Am I last?”
“You’re it.” She waves me toward the block.
“Lot fifteen.” The auctioneer checks his sheet and yawns. “Poisoner. Specialized knowledge in toxicology. No dependents. Sound health. Some scarring.”
Some scarring.
