David Eddings - Enchanter's End Game

“Are we going out the back?”

Issus shook his head. “If we’re being followed, the back will be watched. We’ll leave the way ordinary Drasnian sailors leave.”

“And how is that?”

“I’ve made arrangements to have us thrown out.”

Sadi had never been thrown out of any place before, and he found the experience not particularly amusing. The two burly ruffians who unceremoniously pitched him into the street were a bit rough about it, and Sadi picked up several scrapes and abrasions in the process.

Issus staggered to his feet and stood bawling curses at the closed door, then lurched over and pulled Sadi up out of the mud. Together they reeled in apparent drunkenness down the street toward the Drasnian enclave. Sadi noted that there had been two men in a doorway across the street when he and Issus had been ejected and that the two did not move to follow.

Once they entered the Drasnian enclave, Issus led the way rather quickly to the house of Droblek, the Drasnian port authority. They were admitted immediately and conveyed at once to a dimly lighted but comfortable room where the enormously fat Droblek sat sweating. With him was Count Melgon, the aristocratic ambassador from Tolnedra.

“Novel attire for the chief eunuch of Salmissra’s household,” Count Melgon observed as Sadi pulled off his wig and false beard.

“Just a bit of deception, my Lord Ambassador,” Sadi replied. “I didn’t particularly want this meeting to become general knowledge.”

“Can he be trusted?” Droblek asked bluntly, pointing at Issus.

Sadi’s expression became whimsical. “Can you be trusted, Issus?” he asked.

“You’ve paid me for up to the end of the month.” Issus shrugged. “After that, we’ll see. I might get a better offer.”

“You see?” Sadi said to the two seated men. “Issus can be trusted until the end of the month—at least as much as anybody in Sthiss Tor can be trusted. One thing I’ve noticed about Issus—he’s a simple, uncomplicated man. Once you buy him, he stays bought. I think it’s referred to as professional ethics.”

Droblek grunted sourly. “Do you suppose we could get to the point? Why did you go to so much trouble to arrange this meeting? Why didn’t you just summon us to the palace?”

“My dear Droblek,” Sadi murmured, “you know the kind of intrigue that infests the palace. I’d prefer that what passes between us remain more or less confidential. The matter itself is rather uncomplicated. I’ve been approached by the emissary of Taur Urgas.”

The two regarded him with no show of surprise.

“I gather that you already knew.”

“We’re hardly children, Sadi,” Count Melgon told him.

“I am at present in negotiations with the new ambassador from Rak Goska,” Sadi mentioned.

“Isn’t that the third one so far this summer?” Melgon asked.

Sadi nodded. “The Murgos seem to be particularly susceptible to certain fevers which abound in the swamps.”

“We’ve noticed that,” Droblek said dryly. “What is your prognosis for the present emissary’s continued good health?”

“I don’t imagine he’s any more immune than his countrymen. He’s already beginning to feel unwell.”

“Maybe he’ll be lucky and recover,” Droblek suggested.

“Not very likely,” Issus said with an ugly laugh.

“The tendency of Murgo ambassadors to die unexpectedly has succeeded in keeping the negotiations moving very slowly,” Sadi continued. “I’d like for you gentlemen to inform King Rhodar and Ran Borune that these delays will probably continue.”

“Why?” Droblek asked.

“I want them to understand and appreciate my efforts in their present campaign against the Angarak kingdoms.”

“Tolnedra has no involvement in that campaign,” Melgon asserted quickly.

“Of course not.” Sadi smiled.

“Just how far are you willing to go, Sadi?” Droblek asked curiously.

“That depends almost entirely upon who’s winning at any given moment,” Sadi replied urbanely. “If the Rivan Queen’s campaign in the east begins to run into difficulties, I suspect that the pestilence will subside and the Murgo emissaries will stop dying so conveniently. I’d almost have to make an accommodation with Taur Urgas at that point.”

“Don’t you find that just a bit contemptible, Sadi?” Droblek asked acidly.

Sadi shrugged. “We’re a contemptible sort of people, Droblek,” he admitted, “but we survive. That’s no mean accomplishment for a weak nation lying between two major powers. Tell Rhodar and Ran Borune that I’ll stall the Murgos off for as long as things continue to go in their favor. I want them both to be aware of their obligation to me.”

“And will you advise them when your position is about to change?” Melgon asked.

“Of course not,” Sadi replied. “I’m corrupt, Melgon. I’m not stupid.”

“You’re not much of an ally, Sadi,” Droblek told him.

“I never pretended to be. I’m looking out for myself. At the moment, my interests and yours happen to coincide, that’s all. I do, however, expect to be remembered for my assistance.”

“You’re trying to play it both ways, Sadi,” Droblek accused him bluntly.

“I know.” Sadi smiled. “Disgusting, isn’t it?”

Queen Islena of Cherek was in an absolute panic. This time Merel had gone too far. The advice they had received from Porenn had seemed quite sound—had indeed raised the possibility of a brilliant stroke which would disarm Grodeg and the Bear-cult once and for all. The imagined prospect of the helpless rage into which this would plummet the towering ecclesiast was almost a satisfaction in itself. Like so many people, Queen Islena took such pleasure in an imagined triumph that the real thing became almost too much trouble. The victories of the imagination involved no risks, and a confrontation with an enemy always ended satisfactorily when both sides of the conversation came from one’s own daydreams. Left to her own devices, Islena would probably have been content to let it go at that.

Merel, however, was less easily satisfied. The plan devised by the little queen of Drasnia had been quite sound, but it suffered from one flaw—they did not have enough men to bring it off. Merel, however, had located an ally with certain resources and had brought him into the queen’s inner circle. A group of men in Cherek had not accompanied Anheg and the fleet to Algaria largely because they were not the sort of men who made good sailors. At Merel’s stern-faced insistence, the Queen of Cherek suddenly developed an overpowering enthusiasm for hunting. It was in the forest, safe from prying ears, that the details of the coup were worked out.

“When you kill a snake, you cut off its head,” Torvik the huntsman had pointed out as he, Merel, and Islena sat in a forest glade while Torvik’s men roved through the woods harvesting enough game to make it appear that Islena had spent her day in a frenzy of slaughter. “You don’t accomplish all that much by snipping pieces off its tail an inch or so at a time,” the broad-shouldered huntsman continued. “The Bear-cult isn’t really that concentrated in one place. With a little luck, we can gather up all the important members presently in Val Alorn in one sweep. That should irritate our snake enough to make him stick his neck out. Then we’ll simply chop off his head.”

Torvik’s use of such terminology had made the queen wince. She had not been entirely sure that the blunt, grizzled forester had been speaking figuratively.

And now it had been done. Torvik and his huntsmen had moved quietly through the dark streets of Val Alorn for the entire night, gathering up the sleeping members of the Bear-cult, marching them in groups to the harbor and then locking them in the holds of waiting ships. Because of their years of experience, the hunters had been very thorough in rounding up their quarry. By morning, the only members of the Bear-cult left in the city were the High Priest of Belar and the dozen or so under-priests lodged in the temple.