"It would delay us," Wolf said. "Asharak - whoever he is - knows that Polgara would stop to look for you. So would the rest of us, most likely. That would give Zedar time to get away."
"Just who is Asharak?" Hettar asked, his eyes narrowing.
"A Grolim, I expect," Wolf said. "His operations are a little too widespread for him to be an ordinary Murgo."
"How can one tell the difference?" Durnik asked.
"You can't," Wolf answered. "They look very much the same. They're two separate tribes, but they're much more closely related to each other than they are to other Angaraks. Anyone can tell the difference between a Nadrak and a Thull or a Thull and a Mallorean, but Murgos and Grolims are so much alike that you can't tell them apart."
"I've never had any problem," Aunt Pol said. "Their minds are quite different."
"That will make it much easier," Barak commented dryly. "We'll just chop open the head of the next Murgo we meet, and you can point out the differences to us."
"You've been spending too much time with Silk lately," Aunt Pol said acidly. "You're starting to talk like him."
Barak looked over at Silk and winked.
"Let's finish up here and see if we can't get out of town quietly," Wolf said. "Is there a back alley out of this place?" he asked Silk.
"Naturally," Silk said, still eating.
"Are you familiar with it?"
"Please!" Silk looked a little offended. "Of course I'm familiar with it.
"Let it pass," Wolf said.
The alleyway Silk led them through was narrow, deserted, and smelled quite bad, but it brought them to the town's south gate, and they were soon on the highway again.
"A little distance wouldn't hurt at this point," Wolf said. He thumped his heels to his horse's flanks and started off at a gallop. They rode until well after dark. The moon, looking swollen and unhealthy, rose slowly above the horizon and filled the night with a pale light that seemed to leech away all trace of color. Wolf finally pulled to a stop. "There's really no point in riding all night," he said. "Let's move off the road and get a few hours' sleep. We'll start out again early. I'd like to stay ahead of Brill this time if we can."
"Over there?" Durnik suggested, pointing at a small copse of trees looming black in the moonlight not far from the road.
"It will do," Wolf decided. "I don't think we'll need a fire." They led the horses in among the trees and pulled their blankets out of the packs. The moonlight filtered in among the trees and dappled the leaf strewn ground. Garion found a fairly level place with his feet, rolled up in his blankets and, after squirming around a bit, he fell asleep.
He awoke suddenly, his eyes dazzled by the light of a half dozen torches. A heavy foot was pushed down on his chest, and the point of a sword was set firmly, uncomfortably against his throat.
"Nobody move!" a harsh voice ordered. "We'll kill anybody who moves."
Garion stiffened in panic, and the sword point at his throat dug in sharply. He rolled his head from side to side and saw that all of his friends were being held down in the same way he was. Durnik, who had been standing guard, was held by two rough-looking soldiers, and a piece of rag was stuffed in his mouth.
"What does this mean?" Silk demanded of the soldiers.
"You'll find out," the one in charge rasped. "Get their weapons." As he gestured, Garion saw that a finger was missing from his right hand.
"There's a mistake here," Silk said. "I'm Radek of Boktor, a merchant, and my friends and I haven't done anything wrong."
"Get on your feet," the three-fingered soldier ordered, ignoring the little man's objections. "If any one of you tries to get away, we'll kill all the rest."
Silk rose and crammed on his cap. "You're going to regret this, Captain," he said. "I've got powerful friends here in Tolnedra."
The soldier shrugged. "That doesn't mean anything to me," he said. "I take my orders from Count Dravor. He told me to bring you in."
"All right," Silk said. "Let's go see this Count Dravor, then. We'll get this cleared up right now, and there's no need for waving your swords around. We'll come along quietly. None of us is going to do anything to get you excited."
The three-fingered soldier's face darkened in the torchlight. "I don't like your tone, merchant."
"You're not being paid to like my tone, friend," Silk said. "You're being paid to escort us to Count Dravor. Now suppose we get moving. The quicker we get there, the quicker I can give him a full report about your behavior."
"Get their horses," the soldier growled.
Garion had edged over to Aunt Pol.
"Can't you do anything?" he asked her quietly.
"No talking!" the soldier who had captured him barked.
Garion stood helplessly, staring at the sword leveled at his chest.
Chapter Fourteen
The house of Count Dravor was a large white building set in the center of a broad lawn with clipped hedges and formal gardens on either side. The moon, fully overhead now, illuminated every detail as they rode slowly up a white-graveled, curving road that led to the house.
The soldiers ordered them to dismount in the courtyard between the house and the garden on the west side of the house, and they were hustled inside and down a long hallway to a heavy, polished door.
Count Dravor was a thin, vague-looking man with deep pouches under his eyes, and he sprawled in a chair in the center of a richly furnished room. He looked up with a pleasant, almost dreamy smile on his face as they entered. His mantle was a pale rose color with silver trim at the hem and around the sleeves to indicate his rank. It was badly wrinkled and none too clean. "And who are these guests?" he asked, his voice slurred and barely audible.
"The prisoners, my Lord," the three-fingered soldier explained. "The ones you ordered arrested."
"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.
T
he 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 stiffIy. "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."
Garion almost ran from the cell. Aunt Pol was waiting a few steps down the gloomy stone corridor. Without a word, Garion went to her. She looked at him gravely for a moment and then put her arms about him. They did not speak.
Silk was working on another door, his face gleaming with perspiration. The lock clicked, and the door creaked open. Hettar stepped out. "What took you so long?" he asked Silk.
"Rust!" Silk snapped in a low voice. "I'd like to flog all the jailers in this place for letting the locks get into this condition."
"Do you suppose we could hurry a bit?" Barak suggested over his shoulder from where he stood guard.
"Do you want to do this?" Silk demanded.
"Just move along as quickly as you can," Aunt Pol said. "We don't have the time for bickerin just now." She removed her blue cloak over one arm.
Silk grunted sourly and moved on to the next door.
"Is all this oratory actually necessary?" Mister Wolf, the last to be released, asked crisply as he stepped out of his cell. "You've all been babbling like a flock of geese out here."
"Prince Kheldar felt need to make observations about the condition of the locks," Mandorallen said lightly.
Silk scowled at him and led the way toward the end of the corridor where the torches fumed greasy onto the blackened ceiling.
"Have a care," Mandorallen whispered urgently. "There's a guard."
A bearded man in a dirty leather jerkin sat on the floor with his back against the wall of the corridor, snoring.
"Can we get past without waking him up?" Durnik breathed.
"He isn't going to wake up for several hours," Barak said grimly. The large purple swelling on the side of the guard's face immediately explained.
"Dost think there might be others?" Mandorallen asked, flexing his hands.
"There were a few," Barak said. "They're sleeping too."
"Let's get out of here, then," Wolf suggested.
"We'll take Y'diss with us, won't we?" Aunt Pol asked.
"What for?"
"I'd like to talk with him," she said. "At great length."
"It would be a waste of time," Wolf said. "Salmissra's involved herself in this affair. That's all we really need to know. Her motives don't really interest me all that much. Let's just get out of here as quietly as we can."
They crept past the snoring guard, turned a corner and moved softly down another corridor.
"Did he die?" a voice, shockingly loud, asked from behind a barred door that emitted a smoky red light.
"No," another voice said, "only fainted. You pulled too hard on the lever. You have to keep the pressure steady. Otherwise they faint, and you have
to start over."
"This is a lot harder than I thought," the first voice complained.
"You're doing fine," the second voice said. "The rack's always tricky. Just remember to keep a steady pressure and not to jerk the lever. They usually die if you pull their arms out of the sockets."
Aunt Pol's face went rigid, and her eyes blazed briefly. She made a small gesture and whispered something. A brief, hushed sound murmured in Garion's mind.
"You know," the first voice said rather faintly, "suddenly I don't feel so good."
"Now that you mention it, I don't either," the second voice agreed. "Did that meat we had for supper taste all right to you?"
"It seemed all right." There was a long pause. "I really don't feel good at all."
They tiptoed past the barred door, and Garion carefully avoided looking in. At the end of the corridor was a stout oak door bound with iron. Silk ran his fingers around the handle. "It's locked from the outside," he said.
"Someone's coming," Hettar warned.
There was the tramp of heavy feet on the stone stairs beyond the door, the murmur of voices and a harsh laugh.
Wolf turned quickly to the door of a nearby cell. He touched his fingers to the rusty iron lock, and it clicked smoothly. "In here," he whispered. They all crowded into the cell, and Wolf pulled the door shut behind them.
"When we've got some leisure, I'll want to talk to you about that," Silk said.
"You were having such a good time with the locks that I didn't want to interfere." Wolf smiled blandly. "Now listen. We're going to have to deal with these men before they find out that our cells are empty and rouse the whole house."
"We can do that," Barak said confidently. They waited.
"They're opening the door," Durnik whispered.
"How many are there?" Mandorallen asked.
"I can't tell."
"Eight," Aunt Pol said firmly.
"All right," Barak decided. "We'll let them pass and then jump on them from behind. A scream or two won't matter much in a place like this, but let's put them down quickly."
They waited tensely in the darkness of the cell.
"Y'diss says it doesn't matter if some of them die under the questioning," one of the men outside said. "The only ones wee have to keep alive are the old man, the woman, and the boy."
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