David Eddings - Queen of Sorcery

“Can’t you talk to her?” the small man pleaded with Garion. “She’s destroying me.”

“What makes you think she’d listen to me?” Garion asked.

“You could at least try,” Silk said desperately.

Three richly mantled men stood near the center of the market, arguing heatedly.

“You’re mad, Haldor,” one of them, a thin man with a snub nose, said agitatedly. “The Honeths would strip the Empire for their own profit.” His face was flushed, and his eyes bulged dangerously.

“Would Kador of the Vorduvians be any better?” the stout man named Haldor demanded. “You’re the one who’s mad, Radan. If we put Kador on the throne, he’ll grind us all under foot. There’s such a thing as being too imperial.”

“How dare you?” Radan almost screamed, his perspiring face growing darker. “Grand Duke Kador is the only possible choice. I’d vote for him even if he hadn’t paid me.” He flung his arms about wildly as he talked, and his tongue seemed to stumble over his words.

“Kador’s a pig,” Haldor said flatly, carefully watching Radan as if gauging the impact of his words. “An arrogant, brutal pig with no more right to the throne than a mongrel dog. His great-grandfather bought his way into the House of Vordue, and I’d sooner open a vein than bow to the offspring of a sneak thief from the docks of Tol Vordue.”

Radan’s eyes almost started from his head at Haldor’s calculated insults. He opened his mouth several times as if trying to speak, but his tongue seemed frozen with fury. His face turned purple, and he clawed at the air in front of him. Then his body stiffened and began to arch backward.

Haldor watched him with an almost clinical detachment.

With a strangled cry, Radan toppled back onto the cobblestones, his arms and legs threshing violently. His eyes rolled back in his head, and he began to foam at the mouth as his convulsions became more violent. He began to bang his head on the stones, and his twitching fingers clutched at his throat.

“Amazing potency,” the third mantled man said to Haldor. “Where did you find it?”

“A friend of mine recently made a voyage to Sthiss Tor,” Haldor said, watching Radan’s convulsions with interest. “The beautiful part of it is that it’s completely harmless unless one gets excited. Radan wouldn’t drink the wine until I tasted it first to prove that it was safe.”

“You’ve got the same poison in your own stomach?” the other man asked with astonishment.

“I’m quite safe,” Haldor said. “My emotions never get the best of me.”

Radan’s convulsions had grown weaker. His heels beat at the stones with a rapid pattering sound; then he stiffened, gave a long, gurgling sigh, and died.

“I don’t suppose you’ve got any of the drug left, do you?” Haldor’s friend asked thoughtfully. “I’d be willing to pay quite a bit for something like that.”

Haldor laughed. “Why don’t we go to my house, and we’ll talk about it? Over a cup of wine, perhaps?”

The other man threw him a startled glance; then he laughed too, although a bit nervously. The two of them turned and walked away, leaving the dead man sprawled on the stones.

Garion stared in horror at them and then at the black-faced corpse lying so grotesquely twisted in the center of the marketplace. The Tolnedrans near the body seemed to ignore its existence. “Why doesn’t somebody do something?” he demanded.

“They’re afraid,” Silk said. “If they show any concern, they might be mistaken for partisans. Politics here in Tol Honeth are taken very seriously.”

“Shouldn’t someone notify the authorities?” Durnik suggested, his face pale and his voice shaking.

“I’m sure it’s already been taken care of,” Silk said. “Let’s not stand around staring. I don’t think we want to get involved in this sort of thing.”

Aunt Pol came back to where they were standing. The two Cherek warriors from Grinneg’s house who had been accompanying her were loaded down with bundles and both of them looked a little sheepish about it.

“What are you doing?” she asked Silk.

“We were just watching a bit of Tolnedran politics in action,” Silk said, pointing at the dead man in the center of the square.

“Poison?” she asked, noting Radan’s contorted limbs.

Silk nodded. “A strange one. It doesn’t seem to work unless the victim gets excited.”

“Athsat,” she said with a grim nod.

“You’ve heard of it before?” Silk seemed surprised.

She nodded. “It’s quite rare, and very expensive. I didn’t think the Nyissans would be willing to sell any of it.”

“I think we should move away from here,” Hettar suggested. “There’s a squad of legionnaires coming, and they might want to question any witnesses.”

“Good idea,” Silk said and led them toward the far side of the marketplace.

Near the row of houses that marked the edge of the square, eight burly men carried a heavily veiled litter. As the litter approached, a slender, jeweled hand reached languidly out from behind the veil and touched one of the porters on the shoulder. The eight men stopped immediately and set the litter down.

“Silk,” a woman’s voice called from within the litter, “what are you doing back in Tol Honeth?”

“Bethra?” Silk said. “Is that you?”

The veil was drawn back, revealing a lushly endowed woman lounging on crimson satin cushions inside the litter. Her dark hair was elaborately curled with strings of pearls woven into her tresses. Her pink silken gown clung to her body, and golden rings and bracelets clasped her arms and fingers. Her face was breathtakingly beautiful, and her long-lashed eyes were wicked. There was about her a kind of overripeness and an almost overpowering sense of self indulgent corruption. For some reason Garion felt himself blushing furiously.

“I thought you’d still be running,” she said archly to Silk. “The men I sent after you were very professional.”

Silk bowed with an ironic little flourish. “They were quite good, Bethra,” he agreed with a wry grin. “Not quite good enough, but very good, actually. I hope you didn’t need them anymore.”

“I always wondered why they didn’t come back.” She laughed. “I should have known, of course. I hope you didn’t take it personally.”

“Certainly not, Bethra. It’s just part of the profession, after all.”

“I knew you’d understand,” she said. “I had to get rid of you. You were disrupting my entire plan.”

Silk grinned wickedly. “I know,” he gloated. “And after all you had to go through to set it up—and with the Thullish ambassador, no less.”

She made a disgusted face.

“Whatever happened to him?” Silk asked.

“He went swimming in the Nedrane.”

“I didn’t know that Thulls swam all that well.”

“They don’t—particularly not with large rocks tied to their feet. After you’d destroyed the whole thing, I didn’t really need him anymore, and there were some things I didn’t want him mentioning in certain quarters.”

“You always were prudent, Bethra.”

“What are you up to now?” she asked curiously.

Silk shrugged. “A little of this, a little of that.”

“The succession?”

“Oh, no.” He laughed. “I know better than to get involved in that. Which side are you on?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Silk looked around, his eyes narrowing. “I could use some information, Bethra—if you’re free to talk about it, of course.”

“About what, Silk?”

“The city seems to be awash with Murgos,” Silk said. “If you’re not presently involved with them, I’d appreciate anything you could tell me.”

She smiled at him archly. “And what would you be willing to pay?” she asked.