David Eddings - Queen of Sorcery

“Did I order someone arrested?” the count asked, his voice still slurred. “What a remarkable thing for me to do. I hope I haven’t inconvenienced you, my friends.”

“We were a bit surprised, that’s all,” Silk said carefully.

“I wonder why I did that.” The count pondered. “I must have had a reason—I never do anything without a reason. What have you done wrong?”

“We haven’t done anything wrong, my Lord,” Silk assured him.

“Then why would I have you arrested? There must be some sort of mistake.”

“That’s what we thought, my Lord,” Silk said.

“Well, I’m glad that’s all cleared up,” the count said happily. “May I offer you some dinner, perhaps?”

“We’ve already eaten, my Lord.”

“Oh.” The count’s face fell with disappointment. “I have so few visitors.”

“Perhaps your steward Y’diss may remember the reason these people were detained, my Lord,” the three-fingered soldier suggested.

“Of course,” the count said. “Why didn’t I think of that? Y’diss remembers everything. Please send for him at once.”

“Yes, my Lord.” The soldier bowed and jerked his head curtly at one of his men.

Count Dravor dreamily began playing with one of the folds of his mantle, humming tunelessly as they waited.

After a few moments a door at the end of the room opened, and a man in an iridescent and intricately embroidered robe entered. His face was grossly sensual, and his head was shaved. “You sent for me, my Lord?” His rasping voice was almost a hiss.

“Ah, Y’diss,” Count Dravor said happily, “how good of you to join us.”

“It’s my pleasure to serve you, my Lord,” the steward said with a sinuous bow.

“I was wondering why I asked these friends to stop by,” the count said. “I seem to have forgotten. Do you by any chance recall?”

“It’s just a small matter, my Lord,” Y’diss answered. “I can easily handle it for you. You need your rest. You mustn’t overtire yourself, you know.”

The count passed a hand across his face. “Now that you mention it, I do feel a bit fatigued, Y’diss. Perhaps you could entertain our guests while I rest a bit.”

“Of course, my Lord,” Y’diss said with another bow.

The count shifted around in his chair and almost immediately fell asleep.

“The count is in delicate health,” Y’diss said with an oily smile. “He seldom leaves that chair these days. Let’s move away a bit so that we don’t disturb him.”

“I’m only a Drasnian merchant, your Eminence,” Silk said, “and these are my servants—except for my sister there. We’re baffled by all of this.”

Y’diss laughed. “Why do you persist in this absurd fiction, Prince Kheldar? I know who you are. I know you all, and I know your mission.”

“What’s your interest in us, Nyissan?” Mister Wolf asked bluntly.

“I serve my mistress, Eternal Salmissra,” Y’diss said.

“Has the Snake Woman become the pawn of the Grolims, then?” Aunt Pol asked, “or does she bow to the will of Zedar?”

“My queen bows to no man, Polgara,” Y’diss denied scornfully.

“Really?” She raised one eyebrow. “It’s curious to find her servant dancing to a Grolim tune.”

“I have no dealings with the Grolims,” Y’diss said. “They’re scouring all Tolnedra for you, but I’m the one who found you.”

“Finding isn’t keeping, Y’diss,” Mister Wolf stated quietly. “Suppose you tell us what this is all about.”

“I’ll tell you only what I feel like telling you, Belgarath.”

“I think that’s about enough, father,” Aunt Pol said. “We really don’t have time for Nyissan riddle games, do we?”

“Don’t do it, Polgara,” Y’diss warned. “I know all about your power. My soldiers will kill your friends if you so much as raise your hand.” Garion felt himself roughly grabbed from behind, and a sword blade was pressed firmly against his throat.

Aunt Pol’s eyes blazed suddenly. “You’re walking on dangerous ground!”

“I don’t think we need to exchange threats,” Mister Wolf said. “I gather, then, that you don’t intend to turn us over to the Grolims?”

“I’m not interested in the Grolims,” Y’diss said. “My queen has instructed me to deliver you to her in Sthiss Tor.”

“What’s Salmissra’s interest in this matter?” Wolf asked. “It doesn’t concern her.”

“I’ll let her explain that to you when you get to Sthiss Tor. In the meantime, there are a few things I’ll require you to tell me.”

“I think thou wilt have scant success in that,” Mandorallen said stiffly. “It is not our practice to discuss private matters with unwholesome strangers.”

“And I think you’re wrong, my dear Baron,” Y’diss replied with a cold smile. “The cellars of this house are deep, and what happens there can be most unpleasant. I have servants highly skilled in applying certain exquisitely persuasive torments.”

“I do not fear thy torments, Nyissan,” Mandorallen said contemptuously.

“No. I don’t imagine you do. Fear requires imagination, and you Arends aren’t bright enough to be imaginative. The torments, however, will wear down your will—and provide entertainment for my servants. Good torturers are hard to find, and they grow sullen if they aren’t allowed to practice—I’m sure you understand. Later, after you’ve all had the chance to visit with them a time or two, we’ll try something else. Nyissa abounds with roots and leaves and curious little berries with strange properties. Oddly enough, most men prefer the rack or the wheel to my little concoctions.” Y’diss laughed then, a brutal sound with no mirth in it. “We’ll discuss all this further after I have the count settled in for the night. For right now, the guards will take you downstairs to the places I’ve prepared for you all.”

Count Dravor roused himself and looked around dreamily. “Are our friends departing so soon?” he asked.

“Yes, my Lord,” Y’diss told him.

“Well then,” the count said with a vague smile, “farewell, dear people. I hope you’ll return someday so that we can continue our delightful conversation.”

The cell to which Garion was taken was dank and clammy, and it smelled of sewage and rotting food. Worst of all was the darkness. He huddled beside the iron door with the blackness pressing in on him palpably. From one corner of the cell came little scratchings and skittering sounds. He thought of rats and tried to stay as near to the door as possible. Water trickled somewhere, and his throat began to burn with thirst.

It was dark, but it was not silent. Chains clinked in a nearby cell, and someone was moaning. Further off, there was insane laughter, a meaningless cackle repeated over and over again without pause, endlessly rattling in the dark. Someone screamed, a piercing, shocking sound, and then again. Garion cringed back against the slimy stones of the wall, his imagination immediately manufacturing tortures to account for the agony in those screams.

Time in such a place was nonexistent, and so there was no way to know how long he had huddled in his cell, alone and afraid, before he began to hear a faint metallic scraping and clinking that seemed to come from the door itself. He scrambled away, stumbling across the uneven floor of his cell to the far wall.

“Go away!” he cried.

“Keep your voice down!” Silk whispered from the far side of the door.

“Is that you, Silk?” Garion almost sobbed with relief.

“Who were you expecting?”

“How did you get loose?”

“Don’t talk so much,” Silk said from between clenched teeth. “Accursed rust!” he swore. Then he grunted, and there was a grating click from the door. “There!” The cell door creaked open, and the dim light from torches somewhere filtered in. “Come along,” Silk whispered. “We have to hurry.”