Queen of Sorcery

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.
    "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