“They know who we are,” Tajak said shortly, “and they know better than to interfere with us.” He looked at the already-sweating eunuch. “It would be wise of you to keep your mouth closed now, Ussa. The sun draws the moisture out of a man’s body very quickly in this desert, and an open mouth is the first thing it attacks. It’s quite possible to talk yourself to death out here.”
Sadi gave him a startled look and then clamped his lips tightly together.
The heat was unbelievable. The desert floor was for the most part a vast, flat bed of reddish-brown gravel, broken only by occasional heaps of dark boulders and widely scattered stretches of gleaming white sand. The world seemed to shimmer and undulate as heat waves rose from the blistering gravel. The sun was like a club beating down on Garion’s head and neck; though he was sweating profusely, the moisture evaporated from his body so quickly that his clothing remained totally dry.
They rode into that furnace for an hour, and then Tajak signaled for a halt. With a quick gesture, he sent five of his men off across a low rock ridge lying to the northeast. A short while later they returned, carrying lukewarm water in bags made of whole goatskins.
“Water the horses first,” Tajak said tersely. Then he strode to the base of the ridge, bent, and scooped up a handful of what appeared to be white sand. He came back. “Hold out your right hands,” he said, then spilled perhaps a spoonful into each outstretched palm. “Eat it,” he ordered.
Sadi cautiously licked at the white stuff in his palm and then immediately spat. “Issa!” he swore. “Salt!”
“Eat it all,” Tajak told him. “If you don’t, you’ll die.”
Sadi stared at him.
“The sun is baking the salt out of your body. Without salt in your blood, you die.”
They all reluctantly ate the salt. When they had finished, the Dagashi allowed each of them to drink sparingly; then they remounted and rode on into the inferno.
Ce’Nedra began to droop in her saddle like a wilted flower. The heat seemed to crush her. Garion pulled his horse in beside hers. “Are you all right?” he asked through parched lips.
“No talking!” a Dagashi snapped.
The little queen lifted her face and gave Garion a wan smile and then rode on.
Time lost all meaning in that dreadful place, and even thought became impossible. Garion rode dumbly, his head bent beneath the hammerlike blows of the sun. Hours—or years—later, he raised his head, squinting against the brilliant light around him. He stared stupidly ahead, and only slowly did the realization come to him that what he was seeing was utterly impossible. There, looming in the air before them, floated a vast black island. It hovered above the shimmering, sun-blasted gravel, defying all reason. What manner of sorcery could perform such a feat? How could anyone have that much power?
But it was not sorcery. As they rode nearer, the undulating heat waves began to thin, dispelling the mirage and revealing V the fact that what they approached was not an island in the air, but instead a single rock peak rising precipitously from the desert floor. Encircling it was a narrow trail, hacked out of the solid rock and spiraling upward around the mountain.
“Kahsha,” Tajak said shortly. “Dismount and lead your horses.”
The trail was very steep. After the second spiral around the mountain the shimmering gravel floor of the desert lay far below. Up and up they went, round and round the blisteringly hot peak. And then the trail went directly into the mountain through a large, square opening.
“More caves?” Silk whispered bitterly. “Why is it always caves?”
Garion, however, moved eagerly. He would gladly have entered a tomb to get away from the intolerable sun.
“Take the horses,” Tajak instructed some of his men, “and see to them at once. The rest of you, come with me.” He led them into a long corridor chopped out of the rock itself. Garion groped along blindly until his eyes became adjusted to the dimness. Though by no means cold, the air in the corridor was infinitely cooler than it had been outside. He breathed deeply, straightened, and looked around. The brutal amount of physical labor it had taken to hack this long corridor out of solid rock was clearly evident.
Sadi, noticing that as well, looked at the grim-faced man striding beside him. “I didn’t know that Dagashi were such expert stonecutters,” he observed. “We aren’t. The corridor was cut by slaves.”
“I didn’t know that the Dagashi kept slaves.”
“We don’t. Once our fortress was finished, we turned them loose.”
“Out there?” Sadi’s voice was aghast.
“Most of them preferred to jump off the mountain instead.”
The corridor ended abruptly in a cavern quite nearly as vast as some Garion had seen in the land of the Ulgos. Here, however, narrow windows high in the wall admitted light. As he looked up, he saw that this was not a natural cave, but rather was a large hollow that had been roofed over with stone slabs supported by vaults and buttresses. On the floor of the cave stood a city of low stone houses, and rising in the center of that city stood a bleak, square fortress.
“The house of Jaharb,” their guide said shortly. “He waits. We must hurry.”
Silk drew in his breath with a sharp hiss.
“What’s the matter?” Garion whispered.
“We’re going to have to be very careful here,” Silk murmured. “Jaharb is the chief elder of the Dagashi and he has a very nasty reputation.”
The houses in the city of the Dagashi all had flat roofs and narrow windows. Garion noticed that there was none of the bustle in the streets which one might see in a western city. The black-robed, unsmiling Dagashi went about their business in silence, and each man he saw moving through that strange, half-lit town seemed to carry a kind of vacant space about him, a circle into which none of his fellow townsmen would intrude.
The fortress of Jaharb was solidly built of huge basalt blocks, and the guards at the heavy front door were formidably armed. Tajak spoke briefly to them, and the door swung open.
The room to which Tajak took them was large and was illuminated by costly oil lamps, swinging on chains from the ceiling. The only furnishings were heaps of yellow cushions scattered on the floor and a row of stout, iron-bound chests standing along the rear wail. Seated in the midst of one of the heaps of cushions was an ancient man with white hair and a dark face that was incredibly wrinkled. He wore a yellow robe and he was eating grapes as they entered, carefully selecting them one by one and then languidly raising them to his lips.
“The Nyissan slavers, Revered Elder,” Tajak announced in tones of profoundest respect.
Jaharb set aside his bowl of grapes and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and looking at them intently with his smoky, penetrating eyes. There was something infinitely chilling about that steady gaze. “How are you called?” he asked Sadi finally. His voice was as cold as his eyes, very quiet and with a kind of dusty dryness to it.
“I am Ussa, Revered One,” Sadi replied with a sinuous bow.
“So? And what is your business in the lands of the Murgos?” The ancient man spoke slowly, drawing out his words almost as if he were singing them.
“The slave trade, Great Elder,” Sadi answered quickly.
“Buying or selling?”
“A bit of each. The present turmoil offers certain opportunities.”
“I’m sure it does. You are here for gain, then?”
“A reasonable profit is all, Revered Jaharb.”
The Elder’s expression did not change, but his eyes bored into the face of the suddenly sweating eunuch. “You seem uncomfortable, Ussa,” the dusty voice crooned softly. “Why is that?”
“The heat, Revered Jaharb,” Sadi said nervously. “Your desert is very hot.”
“Perhaps.” The smoky eyes continued their unrelenting gaze. “Is it your purpose to enter the lands controlled by the Malloreons?”
“Why, yes,” Sadi replied, “as a matter of fact it is. I am told that many slaves took advantage of the chaos that accompanied the Malloreon invasions to hide themselves in the Forest of Gorut. They are free for the taking, and the fields and vineyards of Hagga and Cthan lie untended for lack of slaves to work them. There is profit in such a situation.”
“You will have little time for pursuing runaway slaves, Ussa. You must be in Rak Hagga before two months have passed.”
“But—”
Jaharb held up one hand. “You will proceed from this place to Rak Urga, where you are expected. A new servant will join you there. His name is Kabach, and you will find him in the Temple of Torak under the protection of Agachak, the Grolim Hierarch of that place. Agachak and King Urgit will place you and your servants on board a ship which will lake you around the southern end of the Urga peninsula to Rak Cthaka. From there you will go directly overland to Rak Hagga. Do you understand all that I have said?”