Queen of Sorcery

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 shacklesand 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, bernes, 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.