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The Trolvor merchant clicks his claws against the counter. His aide returns the vial, though the small curve of his mouth promises the insult will continue.

"House Varnek employs three Soz'garoth healers," he says. "Any one of them can remove sting pain with a touch."

"Pain is not venom."

"The distinction matters little after the pain is gone."

"It matters when the patient stops breathing."

Nearby bargaining quiets. Not entirely. Ti'lith merchants never surrender profit merely to listen. Yet faces angle toward our stall, and a pair of dark elf servants pause beside a display of metallic thread.

I place my fingertips beside the vial.

"A Soz'garoth can numb the flesh around a vespid sting," I say. "Strong magic can slow the pulse and quiet the spasms. It masks the body's warning and buys time. The venom remains. It continues spreading beneath skin the patient can no longer feel."

The aide folds his stained fingers. "And your plants command venom to vanish?"

"They command nothing. Goligan draws the venom toward the wound. Properly prepared fylvek keeps it from binding deeper. The remaining ingredients help the body cast it out before the lungs close."

"Human superstition."

"Human observation."

His red eyes sharpen.

I continue before rank ends the exchange.

"Three vespid stings kill most humans. One can kill a sick child. Magic can spare them the pain of dying. My remedy can keep them alive if given quickly enough."

"A convenient promise when no stung human stands here."

"Sting yourself and test it."

The merchant releases a harsh bark of laughter.

The aide's expression loses its curve.

"You presume greatly for a breeder," he says.

One of my guards shifts behind me. Armor scrapes against a spear shaft.

I raise a hand without looking back. Draxon's protection gives me room to bargain. It cannot become the argument that wins for me.

"My legal station does not alter what venom does inside a body," I say. "Nor does yours."

The aide turns toward his master. "A pretty performance. The vial has no value to House Varnek."

"Then House Varnek should not purchase it."

"I was not addressing you."

"You have spent considerable effort discussing my merchandise for someone who finds it worthless."

A small figure presses between two market porters before the aide can answer.

The Zonak wears a leather works apron over rust-red skin. One short horn is capped in copper, and soot darkens the creases around his yellow eyes. He clutches three folded packets against his chest while staring at my vial.

"Is that the Obsidius lung-woman's sting dose?" he asks.