Queen of Sorcery
Page 78"Dead?" Durnik asked.
Droblek shrugged. "No, just very happy. He enjoyed the berries very much. I dismissed him at once, but he didn't seem to mind. For all I know, he's still sitting there."
"How extensive is your network here in Sthiss Tor?" Aunt Pol asked.
Droblek spread his pudgy hands modestly. "I manage to pick up a bit of information here and there. I've got a few people in the palace and a minor official at the Tolnedran embassy. The Tolnedrans are very thorough." He grinned impishly. "It's cheaper to let them do all the work and then buy the information after they've gathered it."
"If you can believe what they tell you," Hettar suggested.
"I never take what they say at face value," Droblek said. "The Tolnedran ambassador knows that I've bought his man. He tries to trip me up with false leads now and then."
"Does the ambassador know that you know?" Hettar asked.
"Of course he does." The fat man laughed. "But he doesn't think that I'm aware of the fact that he knows that I know." He laughed again. "It's all terribly complicated, isn't it?"
"Most Drasnian games usually are," Barak observed.
"Does the name Zedar mean anything to you?" Aunt Pol asked.
"I've heard it, naturally," Droblek said.
"Has he been in touch with Salmissra?"
"I'd believe them," Aunt Pol said, "and probably things you haven't even begun to guess." She turned back to the others. "I think we're at a standstill. We can't make any kind of move until we hear from Silk and the Old Wolf."
"Could I offer you my house?" Droblek asked.
"I think we'll stay on board Captain Greldik's ship," she told him. "As you say, Nyissa's a murky place, and I'm sure that the Tolnedran ambassadors bought a few people in your establishment."
"Naturally," Droblek agreed. "But I know who they are."
"We'd better not chance it," she told him. "There are several reasons for our avoiding Tolnedrans just now. We'll stay aboard the ship and keep out of sight. Let us know as soon as Prince Kheldar gets in touch with you."
"Of course," Droblek said. "You'll have to wait until the rain lets up, though. Listen to it." There was the thundering sound of a downpour on the roof overhead.
"Will it last long?" Durnik asked.
Droblek shrugged. "An hour or so usually. It rains every afternoon during this season."
"I imagine it helps to cool the air," the smith said.
"Not significantly," the Drasnian told him. "Usually it just makes things worse." He mopped the sweat from his fat face.
"How can you live here?" Durnik asked.
They sat quietly then, listening to the pounding rain.
Chapter Twenty-five
FOR THE NEXT SEVERAL DAYS they all remained aboard Greldik's ship, waiting for word from Silk and Mister Wolf. Ce'Nedra recovered from her indisposition and appeared on deck wearing a palecolored Dryad tunic which seemed to Garion to be only slightly less revealing than the gowns worn by Nyissan women. When he rather stiffly suggested that she ought to put on a few more clothes, however, she merely laughed at him. With a single-mindedness that made him want to grind his teeth, she returned to the task of teaching him to read and write. They sat together in an out-of the-way spot on deck, poring over a tedious book on Tolnedran diplomacy. The whole business seemed to Garion to be taking forever, though in fact his mind was very quick, and he was learning surprisingly fast. Ce'Nedra was too thoughtless to compliment him, though she seemed to await his next mistake almost breathlessly, delighting it seemed in each opportunity to ridicule him. Her proximity and her light, spicy perfume distracted him as they sat close beside each other, and he perspired as much from their occasional touch of hand or arm or hip as he did from the climate. Because they were both young, she was intolerant and he was stubborn. The sticky, humid heat made them both short-tempered and irritable, so the lessons erupted into bickering more often than not.When they arose one morning, a black, square-rigged Nyissan ship rocked in the river current at a nearby wharf. A foul, evil kind of reek carried to them from her on the fitful morning breeze.
"What's that smell?" Garion asked one of the sailors.
"Slaves," the sailor answered grimly, pointing at the Nyissan ship. "You can smell them twenty miles away when you're at sea."
Garion looked at the ugly black ship and shuddered.
Barak and Mandorallen drifted across the deck and joined Garion at the rail. "Looks like a scow," Barak said of the Nyissan ship, his voice heavy with contempt. He was stripped to the waist, and his hairy torso ran with sweat.
"It's a slave ship," Garion told him.
"It smells like an open sewer," Barak complained. "A good fire would improve it tremendously."
"A sorry trade, my Lord Barak," Mandorallen said. "Nyissa hath dealt in human misery for untold centuries."
"Is that a Drasnian wharf?" Barak asked with narrowed eyes.
"That's a shame," Barak growled.
A group of mail-shirted men in black cloaks walked out onto the wharf where the slave ship was moored and stopped near the vessel's stern.
"Oh-oh," Barak said. "Where's Hettar?"
"He's still below," Garion replied. "What's the matter?"
"Keep an eye out for him. Those are Murgos."
The shaven-headed Nyissan sailors pulled open a hatch on their ship and barked a few rough orders down into the hold. Slowly, a line of dispirited-looking men came up. Each man wore an iron collar, and a long chain fastened them together.
Mandorallen stiffened and began to swear.
"What's wrong?" Barak asked.
"Arendishmen!" the knight exclaimed. "I had heard of this, but I did not believe it."
"Heard of what?"