“Be nice, Khendon,” Porenn told him. “How was Rak Urga?”
“Ugly—but then, most Murgo cities are.”
“And how is King Urgit?”
“Newly married, your Majesty, and a little distracted by the novelty of it.”
Porenn made a face. “I didn’t send a gift,” she fretted.
“I took the liberty of attending to that, your Majesty,” Javelin said. “A rather nice silver service I picked up in Tol Honeth—at a bargain price, of course. I have this limited budget, you understand.”
She gave him a long, unfriendly look.
“I left the bill with your chamberlain,” he added with not even the faintest trace of embarrassment.
“How are the negotiations going?”
“Surprisingly well, my queen. The King of the Murgos seems not to have yet succumbed to the hereditary disorder of the House of Urga. He’s very shrewd, actually.”
“I somehow thought he might be,” Porenn replied just a bit smugly.
“You’re keeping secrets, Porenn,” Javelin accused.
“Yes. Women do that from time to time. Are the Mallorean agents in the Drojim keeping abreast of things?”
“Oh, yes.” Javelin smiled. “Sometimes we have to be a little obvious in order to make sure that they’re getting the point, but they’re more or less fully aware of the progress of the negotiations. We seem to be making them a bit apprehensive.”
“You made good time on your return voyage.”
Javelin shuddered slightly. “King Anheg put a ship at our disposal. Her captain is that pirate Greldik-I made the mistake of telling him I was in a hurry. The passage through the Bore was ghastly.”
There was another polite knock on the door.
“Yes?” Porenn answered.
A servant opened the door. “The Nadrak Yarblek is here again, your Majesty,” he reported.
“Show him in, please.”
Yarblek had a tight look on his face that Vella recognized all too well. Her owner was in many respects a transparent man. He pulled off his shabby fur cap. “Good morning, Porenn,” he said without ceremony, tossing the cap into a corner. “Have you got anything to drink? I’ve been in the saddle for five days and I’m perishing of thirst.”
“Over there.” Porenn pointed at a sideboard near the window.
Yarblek grunted, crossed the room, and filled a large goblet from a crystal decanter. He took a long drink. “Javelin,” he said then, “have you got any people in Yar Nadrak?”
“A few,” Javelin admitted cautiously.
“You’d better have them keep an eye on Drosta. He’s up to something.”
“He’s always up to something.”
“That’s no lie, but this might be a little more serious. He’s reopened lines of communication with Mal Zeth. He and Zakath haven’t been on speaking terms since he changed sides at Thull Mardu, but now they’re talking again. I don’t like the smell of it.”
“Are you sure? None of my people have reported it.”
“They’re probably in the palace, then. Drosta doesn’t conduct serious business there. Have them go to a riverside tavern in the thieves’ quarter. It’s called the One-Eyed Dog. Drosta goes there to amuse himself. The emissary from Mal Zeth’s been meeting with him in an upstairs room there— that’s when Drosta can drag himself away from the girls.”
“I’ll put some people on it right away. Could you get any idea at all of what they’re discussing?”
Yarblek shook his head and dropped wearily into a chair.
“Drosta’s ordered his guards to keep me out of the place.” He looked at Vella. “You’re looking a little pecky this morning,” he observed. “Did you drink too much last night?”
“I almost never get drunk any more,” she told him.
“I knew it was a mistake to leave you here in Boktor,” he said glumly. “Porenn’s a corrupting influence. Did you get over your irritation with me yet?”
“I suppose so. It’s not really your fault that you’re stupid.”
“Thanks.” He looked her up and down appraisingly. “I like the dress,” he told her. “It makes you look more like a woman, for a change.”
“Did you ever have any doubts, Yarblek?” she asked him archly.
Adiss, the Chief Eunuch in the palace of Eternal Salmissra, received the summons early that morning and he approached the throne room with fear and trembling. The queen had been in a peculiar mood of late, and Adiss painfully remembered the fate of his predecessor. He entered the dimly lit throne room and prostrated himself before the dais.
“The Chief Eunuch approaches the throne,” the adoring chorus intoned in unison. Even though he himself had been until recently a member of that chorus, Adiss found their mouthing of the obvious irritating.
The queen dozed on her divan, her mottled coils moving restlessly with the dry hiss of scales rubbing against each other. She opened her soulless serpent’s eyes and looked at him, her forked tongue flickering. “Well?” she said peevishly in the dusty whisper that always chilled his blood.
“Y-you summoned me, Divine Salmissra,” he faltered.
“I’m aware of that, you idiot. Do not irritate me, Adiss. I’m on the verge of going into molt, and that always makes me short-tempered. I asked you to find out what the Alorns are up to. I am waiting for your report.”
“I haven’t been able to find out very much, my Queen.”
“That is not the answer I wanted to hear, Adiss,” she told him dangerously. “Is it possible that the duties of your office are beyond your capabilities?”
Adiss began to tremble violently. “I-I’ve sent for Droblek, your Majesty—the Drasnian Port Authority here in Sthiss Tor. I thought he might be able to shed some light on the situation.”
“Perhaps so.” Her tone was distant, and she gazed at her reflection in the mirror. “Summon the Tolnedran Ambassador as well. Whatever the Alorns are doing in Cthol Murgos also involves Varana.”
“Forgive me, Divine Salmissra,” Adiss said, feeling a trifle confused, “but why should the activities of the Alorns and Tolnedrans concern us?”
She swung her head about slowly, her sinuous neck weaving in the air. “Are you a total incompetent, Adiss?” she asked him. “We may not like it, but Nyissa is a part of the world, and we must always know what our neighbors are doing—and why.” She paused, her tongue nervously tasting the air. “There is a game of some kind afoot, and I want to find out exactly what it is before I decide whether or not to become involved in it.” She paused again. “Have you ever found out what happened to that one-eyed fellow, Issus?”
“Yes, your Majesty. He was recruited by Drasnian intelligence. At last report, he was in Rak Urga with the Alorn negotiators.”
“How very curious. I think this entire business is reaching the point where I must have detailed information—and very, very soon. Do not fail me, Adiss. Your position is not all that secure, you know. Now you may kiss me.” She lowered her head, and he stumbled to the dais to touch his cringing lips to her cold forehead.
“Very well, Adiss,” she said. “Leave now.” And she went back to gazing at her reflection in the mirror.
King Nathel of Mishrak ac Thull was a slack-lipped, dull-eyed young man with lank, mud-colored hair and a profound lack of anything even remotely resembling intelligence. His royal robes were spotted and wrinkled, and his crown did not fit him. It rested atop his ears and quite often slid down over his eyes.
Agachak, the cadaverous Hierarch of Rak Urgo, could not stand the young King of the Thulls, but he forced himself to be civil to him during their current discussions. Civility was not one of Agachak’s strong points. He much preferred peremptory commands backed up by threats of dreadful retribution for failure to comply, but a careful assessment of Nathel’s personality had persuaded him that the Thull would collapse on the spot if he were suddenly given any kind of threat or ultimatum. And so it was that Agachak was forced to rely on cajolery and wheedling instead.
“The prophecy clearly states, your Majesty,” he tried again, “that whichever king accompanies me to the place of the meeting will become Overking of all of Angarak.”
“Does that mean I get Cthol Murgos and Gar og Nadrak, too?” Nathel asked, a faint glimmer coming into his uncomprehending eyes.
“Absolutely, your Majesty,” Agachak assured him, “and Mallorea as well.”
“Won’t that make Kal Zakath unhappy with me? I wouldn’t want him to feel that way. He had my father flogged once, did you know that? He was going to crucify him, but there weren’t any trees around.”
“Yes, I’d heard about that, but you don’t have to worry. Zakath would have to genuflect to you.”
“Zakath genuflect—to me?” Nathel laughed. It was a sound frighteningly devoid of thought.
“He would have no choice, your Majesty. If he were to refuse, the New God would blast him to atoms on the spot.”
“What’s an atom?”
Agachak ground his teeth. “A very small piece, your Majesty,” he explained.