David Eddings - Queen of Sorcery

“Certainly, my Lord,” Y’diss said in his sibilant, rasping voice. “The green tastes bad,” Count Dravor said drowsily, “but it gives me such lovely dreams. The red tastes better, but the dreams aren’t so nice.”

“Soon you’ll be ready for the blue, my Lord,” Y’diss promised. There was a faint clink and the sound of liquid being poured into a glass. “Then the yellow, and finally the black. The black’s best of all.”

Silk led them on tiptoe past the half open door. The lock on the outside door yielded quickly to his skill, and they all slipped out into the cool, moonlit night. The stars twinkled overhead, and the air was sweet. “I’ll get the horses,” Hettar said.

“Go with him, Mandorallen,” Wolf said. “We’ll wait over there.” He pointed at the shadowy garden. The two men disappeared around the corner, and the rest of them followed Mister Wolf into the looming shadow of the hedge which surrounded Count Dravor’s garden.

They waited. The night was chilly, and Garion found himself shivering. Then there was a click of a hoof touching a stone, and Hettar and Mandorallen came back, leading the horses.

“We’d better hurry,” Wolf said. “As soon as Dravor drops off to sleep, Y’diss is going to go down to his dungeon and find out that we’ve left. Lead the horses. Let’s get away from the house before we start making any noise.”

They went down through the moonlit garden with the horses trailing along after them until they emerged on the open lawn beyond. They mounted carefully.

“We’d better hurry,” Aunt Pol suggested, glancing back at the house.

“I bought us a little time before I left,” Silk said with a short laugh.

“How’d you manage that?” Barak asked.

“When I went to get our weapons, I also set fire to the kitchen.” Silk smirked. “That will keep their attention for a bit.”

A tendril of smoke rose from the back of the house.

“Very clever,” Aunt Pol said with a certain grudging admiration.

“Why thank you, my Lady.” Silk made a mocking little bow. Mister Wolf chuckled and led them away at an easy trot.

The tendril of smoke at the back of the house became thicker as they rode away, rising black and oily toward the uncaring stars.

They rode hard for the next several days, stopping only long enough to rest the horses and catch a few hours’ sleep at infrequent intervals. Garion found that he could doze in his saddle whenever they walked the horses. He found, indeed, that if he were tired enough, he could sleep almost anyplace. One afternoon as they rested from the driving pace Wolf set, he heard Silk talking to the old man and Aunt Pol. Curiosity finally won out over exhaustion, and he roused himself enough to listen.

“I’d still like to know more about Salmissra’s involvement in this,” the little man was saying.

“She’s an opportunist,” Wolf said. “Any time there’s turmoil, she tries to turn it to her own advantage.”

“That means we’ll have to dodge Nyissans as well as Murgos.” Garion opened his eyes. “Why do they call her Eternal Salmissra?” he asked Aunt Pol. “Is she very old?”

“No,” Aunt Pol answered. “The Queens of Nyissa are always named Salmissra, that’s all.”

“Do you know this particular one?”

“I don’t have to,” she told him. “They’re always exactly the same. They all look alike and act alike. If you know one, you know them all.”

“She’s going to be terribly disappointed with Y’diss,” Silk observed, grinning.

“I imagine that Y’diss has taken some quiet, painless way out by now,” Wolf said. “Salmissra grows a bit excessive when she’s irritated.”

“Is she so cruel then?” Garion asked.

“Not cruel exactly,” Wolf explained. “Nyissans admire serpents. If you annoy a snake, he’ll bite you. He’s a simple creature, but very logical. Once he bites you, he doesn’t hold any further grudges.”

“Do we have to talk about snakes?” Silk asked in a pained voice.

“I think the horses are rested now,” Hettar said from behind them. “We can go now.”

They pushed the horses back into a gallop and pounded south toward the broad valley of the Nedrane River and Tol Honeth. The sun turned warm, and the trees along the way were budding in the first days of spring,

The gleaming Imperial City was situated on an island in the middle of the river, and all roads led there. It was clearly visible in the distance as they crested the last ridge and looked down into the fertile valley and it seemed to grow larger with each passing mile as they approached it. It was built entirely of white marble and it dazzled the eye in the midmorning sun. The walls were high and thick, and towers soared above them within the city.

A bridge arched gracefully across the rippled face of the Nedrane to the bronze expanse of the north gate where a glittering detachment of legionnaires marched perpetual guard.

Silk pulled on his conservative cloak and cap and drew himself up, his face assuming that sober, businesslike expression that meant that he was undergoing a private internal transition that seemed to make him almost believe himself that he was the Drasnian merchant whose identity he assumed.

“Your business in Tol Honeth?” one of the legionnaires asked politely. “I am Radek of Boktor,” Silk said with the preoccupied air of a man whose mind was on business. “I have Sendarian woolens of the finest quality.”

“You’ll probably want to talk with the Steward of the Central Market, then,” the legionnaire suggested.

“Thank you.” Silk nodded and led them through the gate into the broad and crowded streets beyond.

“I think I’d better stop by the palace and have a talk with Ran Borune,” Mister Wolf said. “The Borunes aren’t the easiest emperors to deal with, but they’re the most intelligent. I shouldn’t have too much trouble convincing him that the situation’s serious.”

“How are you going to get to see him?” Aunt Pol asked him. “It could take weeks to get an appointment. You know how they are.”

Mister Wolf made a sour face. “I suppose I could make a ceremonial visit of it,” he said as they pushed their horses through the crowd.

“And announce your presence to the whole city?”

“Do I have any choice? I have to nail down the Tolnedrans. We can’t afford to have them neutral.”

“Could I make a suggestion?” Barak asked.

“I’ll listen to anything at this point.”

“Why don’t we go see Grinneg?” Barak said. “He’s the Cherek Ambassador here in Tol Honeth. He could get us into the palace to see the Emperor without all that much fuss.”

“That’s not a bad idea, Belgarath,” Silk agreed. “Grinneg’s got enough connections in the palace to get us inside quickly, and Ran Borune respects him.”

“That only leaves the problem of getting in to see the ambassador,” Durnik said as they stopped to let a heavy wagon pass into a side street.

“He’s my cousin,” Barak said. “He and Anheg and I used to play together when we were children.” The big man looked around. “He’s supposed to have a house near the garrison of the Third Imperial Legion. I suppose we could ask somebody the way.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Silk said. “I know where it is.”

“I should have known.” Barak grinned.

“We can go through the north marketplace,” Silk said. “The garrison’s located near the main wharves on the downstream end of the island.”

“Lead the way,” Wolf told him. “I don’t want to waste too much time here.”

The streets of Tol Honeth teemed with people from all over the world. Drasnians and Rivans rubbed elbows with Nyissans and Thulls. There was a sprinkling of Nadraks in the crowd and, to Garion’s eye, a disproportionate number of Murgos. Aunt Pol rode close beside Hettar, talking quietly to him and frequently laying her hand lightly on his sword arm. The lean Algar’s eyes burned, and his nostrils flared dangerously each time he saw a scarred Murgo face.