"Probably not a good place for swimming," Hettar observed.
"I wasn't considering it," Durnik said.
"Good." Aunt Pol, wearing a light linen dress, came out of the cabin beneath the high stern where Greldik and Barak were taking turns at the tiller. She had been caring for Ce'Nedra, who had drooped and wilted like a flower in the brutal climate of the river.
"Can't you do something?" Garion demanded of her silently.
"About what?"
"All of this."He looked around helplessly.
"What do you want me to do?"
"Drive of the bugs, if nothing else."
"Why don't you do it yourself, Belgarion?"
He set his jaw. "No!" It was almost a silent shout.
"It isn't really very hard."
"No."
She shrugged and turned away, leaving him seething with frustration. It took them three more days to reach Sthiss Tor. The city was embraced in a wide coil of the river and was built of black stone. The houses and buildings were low and for the most part were windowless. In the center of the city a vast pile of a building rose with strangely shaped spires and domes and terraces, oddly alien-looking. Wharves and jetties poked out into the turbid river, and Greldik guided his ship toward one which was much larger than the rest. "We have to stop at customs," he explained.
"Inevitably," Durnik said.
The exchange at customs was brief. Captain Greldik announced that he was delivering the goods of Radek of Boktor to the Drasnian trade enclave. Then he handed a jingling purse to the shaven-headed customs official, and the ship was allowed to proceed without inspection.
"You owe me for that, Barak," Greldik said. "The trip here was out of friendship, but the money's something else again."
"Write it down someplace," Barak told him. "I'll take care of it when I get back to Val Alorn."
"If you ever get back to Val Alorn," Greldik said sourly.
"I'm sure you'll remember me in your prayers, then," Barak said. "I know you pray for me all the time anyway, but now you've got a bit more incentive."
"Is every official in the whole world corrupt?" Durnik demanded irritably. "Doesn't anyone do his job the way it's supposed to be done without taking bribes?"
"The world would come to an end if one of them did," Hettar replied. "You and I are too simple and honest for these affairs, Durnik. We're better off leaving this kind of thing to others."
"It's disgusting, that's all."
"That may be true," Hettar agreed, "but I'm just as happy that the customs man didn't look below decks. We might have had some trouble explaining the horses."
The sailors had backed the ship into the river again and rowed toward a series of substantial wharves. They pulled up beside the outer wharf, shipped their oars and looped the hawsers around the tar-blackened pilings of a mooring spot.
"You can't moor here," a sweaty guard told them from the wharf. "This is for Drasnian ships."
"I'll moor anyplace it suits me," Greldik said shortly.
"I'll call out the soldiers," the guard threatened. He took hold of one of their hawsers and pulled out a long knife.
"If you cut that rope, friend, I'll come down there and tear off your ears," Greldik warned.
"Go ahead and tell him," Barak suggested. "It's too hot for fighting."
"My ship's carrying Drasnian goods," Greldik told the guard on the wharf, "belonging to a man named Radek-from Boktor, I think."
"Oh," the guard said, putting away his knife, "why didn't you say so in the first place?"
"Because I didn't like your attitude," Greldik replied bluntly. "Where do I find the man in charge?"
"Droblek? His house is just up that street past the shops. It's the one with the Drasnian emblem on the door."
"I've got to talk with him," Greldik said. "Do I need a pass to go off the wharf? I've heard some strange things about Sthiss Tor."
"You can move around inside the enclave," the guard informed him. "You only need a pass if you want to go into the city."
Greldik grunted and went below. A moment later he came back with several packets of folded parchment. "Do you want to talk to this official?" he asked Aunt Pol. "Or do you want me to take care of it?"
"We'd better come along," she decided. "The girl's asleep. Tell your men not to disturb her."
Greldik nodded and spoke briefly to his first mate. The sailors ran a plank across to the wharf, and Greldik led the way ashore. Thick clouds were rolling in overhead, darkening the sun.
The street which ran down to the wharf was lined on both sides with the shops of Drasnian merchants, and Nyissans moved torpidly from shop to shop, stopping now and then to haggle with the sweating shop-keepers. The Nyissan men all wore loose-fitting robes of a light, iridescent fabric, and their heads were all shaved completely bald. As he walked along behind Aunt Pol, Garion noticed with a certain distaste that the Nyissans wore elaborate makeup on their eyes, and that their lips and cheeks were rouged. Their speech was rasping and sibilant, and they all seemed to affect a lisp.
The heavy clouds had by now completely obscured the sky, and the street seemed suddenly dark. A dozen wretched, near-naked men were repairing a section of cobblestones. Their unkempt hair and shaggy beards indicated that they were not Nyissan, and there were shackles and chains attached to their ankles. A brutal-looking Nyissan stood over them with a whip, and the fresh welts and cuts on their bodies spoke mutely of the freedom with which he used it. One of the miserable slaves accidentally dropped an armload of crudely squared-off stones on his foot and opened his mouth with an animal-like howl of pain. With horror, Garion saw that the slave's tongue had been cut out.
"They reduce men to the level of beasts," Mandorallen growled, his eyes burning with a terrible anger. "Why has this cesspool not been cleansed?"
"It was once," Barak said grimly. "Just after the Nyissans assassinated the Rivan King, the Alorns came down here and killed every Nyissan they could find."
"Their numbers appear undiminished," Mandorallen said, looking around.
Barak shrugged. "It was thirteen hundred years ago. Even a single pair of rats could reestablish their species in that length of time."
Durnik, who was walking beside Garion, gasped suddenly and averted his eyes, blushing furiously.
A Nyissan lady had just stepped from a litter carried by eight slaves. The fabric of her pale green gown was so flimsy that it was nearly transparent and left very little to the imagination. "Don't look at her, Garion," Durnik whispered hoarsely, still blushing. "She's a wicked woman."
"I'd forgotten about that," Aunt Pol said with a thoughtful frown. "Maybe we should have left Durnik and Garion on the ship."
"Why's she dressed like that?" Garion asked, watching the nearly nude woman.
"Undressed, you mean." Durnik's voice was strangled with outrage.
"It's the custom," Aunt Pol explained. "It has to do with the climate. There are some other reasons, of course, but we don't need to go into those just now. All Nyissan women dress that way."
Barak and Greldik were watching the woman also, their broad grins appreciative.
"Never mind," Aunt Pol told them firmly.
Not far away a shaven-headed Nyissan stood leaning against a wall, staring at his hand and giggling senselessly. "I can see right through my fingers," he announced in a hissing lisp. "Right through them."
"Drunk?" Hettar asked.
"Not exactly," Aunt Pol answered. "Nyissans have peculiar amusements - leaves, berries, certain roots. Their perceptions get modified. It's a bit more serious than the common drunkenness one finds among Alorns."
Another Nyissan shambled by, his gait curiously jerky and his expression blank.
"Doth this condition prevail widely?" Mandorallen asked.
"I've never met a Nyissan yet who wasn't at least partially drugged," Aunt Pol said. "It makes them difficult to talk to. Isn't that the house we're looking for?" She pointed at a solid building across the street.
There was an ominous rumble of thunder off to the south as they crossed to the large house. A Drasnian servant in a linen tunic answered their knock, let them into a dimly lighted antechamber, and told them to wait.
"An evil city," Hettar said quietly. "I can't see why any Alorn in his right mind would come here willingly."
"Money," Captain Greldik replied shortly. "The Nyissan trade is very profitable."
"There are more important things than money," Hettar muttered.
An enormously fat man came into the dim room. "More light," he snapped at his servant. "You didn't have to leave them here in the dark."
"You said that the lamps just made it hotter," the servant protested in a surly tone. "I wish you'd make up your mind."
"Never mind what I said; just do as I say."
"The climate's making you incoherent, Droblek," the servant noted acidly. He lit several lamps and left the room muttering to himself.
"Drasnians make the world's worst servants," Droblek grumbled.
"Shall we get down to business?" He lowered his vast bulk into a chair. The sweat rolled continually down his face and into the damp collar of his brown silk robe.
"My name's Greldik," the bearded seaman said. "I've just arrived at your wharves with a shipload of goods belonging to the merchant, Radek of Boktor." He presented the folded packets of parchment.
Droblek's eyes narrowed. "I didn't know that Radek was interested in the southern trade. I thought he dealt mostly in Sendaria and Arendia."
Greldik shrugged indifferently. "I didn't ask him. He pays me to carry his goods in my ship, not to ask questions about his business."
Droblek looked at them all, his sweating face expressionless. Then his fingers moved slightly.-Is everything here what it seems to be? The Drasnian secret language made his fat fingers suddenly nimble.
Can we speak openly here? Aunt Pol's fingers asked him. Her gestures were stately, somehow archaic. There was a kind of formality to her movements that Garion had not seen in the signs made by others.
As openly as anyplace in this pest-hole - Droblek replied, - You have a strange accent, lady. There's something about it that it seems I should remember- '
I learned the language a very long time ago-she replied.-You know who Radek of Boktor really is, of course-
"Naturally," Droblek said aloud. "Everyone knows that. Sometimes he calls himself Ambar of Kotu - when he wants to have dealings that are not, strictly speaking, legitimate."
"Shall we stop fencing with each other, Droblek?" Aunt Pol asked quietly. "I'm quite certain you've received instructions from King Rhodar by now. All this dancing about is tiresome."
Droblek's face darkened. "I'm sorry," he said stiffly. "I'll need a bit more in the way of verification."
"Don't be an idiot, Droblek," Barak rumbled at the fat man. "Use your eyes. You're an Alorn; you know who the lady is."
Droblek looked suddenly at Aunt Pol, his eyes going very wide. "It's not possible," he gasped.
"Would you like to have her prove it to you?" Hettar suggested. The house shook with a sudden crash of thunder.
"No, no," Droblek refused hastily, still staring at Aunt Pol. "It just never occurred to me - I mean, I just never-" He floundered with it.
"Have you heard from Prince Kheldar or my father?" Aunt Pol asked crisply.
"Your father? You mean-? Is he involved in this too?"
"Really, Droblek," she said tartly, "don't you believe the communications King Rhodar sends you?"
Droblek shook his head like a man trying to clear his mind. "I'm sorry, Lady Polgara," he said. "You surprised me, that's all. It takes a moment to get used to. We didn't think you'd be coming this far south."
"It's obvious then that you haven't received any word from Kheldar or the old man."
"No, my Lady," Droblek said. "Nothing. Are they supposed to be here?"
"So they said. They were either going to meet us here or send word."
"It's very hard to get messages any place in Nyissa," Droblek explained. "The people here aren't very reliable. The prince and your father could be upcountry, and their messenger could very well have gone astray. I sent a messenger to a place not ten leagues from the city once, and it took six months to arrive. The Nyissan who was carrying it found a certain berry patch along the way. We found him sitting in the middle of the patch, smiling." Droblek made a sour face. "There was moss growing on him," he added.
"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?"
Droblek frowned. "I couldn't say for sure. I haven't heard that he has, but that doesn't mean that he hasn't. Nyissa's a murky sort of place, and Salmissra's palace is the murkiest spot in the whole country. You wouldn't believe some of the things that go on there."
"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.
Droblek smiled blandly. "Fat men don't move around all that much. I'm making a great deal of money, and the game I'm playing with the Tolnedran ambassador keeps my mind occupied. It's not all that bad, once you get used to it. It helps if I keep telling myself that."
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.
"No," Garion answered. "The sailors say that everything on that side's Nyissan."
"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.