"They reduce men to the level of beasts," Mandorallen growled, his eyes burning with a terrible anger. "Why has this cesspool not been cleansed?"
"It was once," Barak said grimly. "Just after the Nyissans assassinated the Rivan King, the Alorns came down here and killed every Nyissan they could find."
"Their numbers appear undiminished," Mandorallen said, looking around.
Barak shrugged. "It was thirteen hundred years ago. Even a single pair of rats could reestablish their species in that length of time."
Durnik, who was walking beside Garion, gasped suddenly and averted his eyes, blushing furiously.
A Nyissan lady had just stepped from a litter carried by eight slaves. The fabric of her pale green gown was so flimsy that it was nearly transparent and left very little to the imagination. "Don't look at her, Garion," Durnik whispered hoarsely, still blushing. "She's a wicked woman."
"I'd forgotten about that," Aunt Pol said with a thoughtful frown. "Maybe we should have left Durnik and Garion on the ship."
"Why's she dressed like that?" Garion asked, watching the nearly nude woman.
"Undressed, you mean." Durnik's voice was strangled with outrage.
"It's the custom," Aunt Pol explained. "It has to do with the climate. There are some other reasons, of course, but we don't need to go into those just now. All Nyissan women dress that way."
Barak and Greldik were watching the woman also, their broad grins appreciative.
"Never mind," Aunt Pol told them firmly.
Not far away a shaven-headed Nyissan stood leaning against a wall, staring at his hand and giggling senselessly. "I can see right through my fingers," he announced in a hissing lisp. "Right through them."
"Drunk?" Hettar asked.
"Not exactly," Aunt Pol answered. "Nyissans have peculiar amusements - leaves, bernes, certain roots. Their perceptions get modified. It's a bit more serious than the common drunkenness one finds among Alorns."
Another Nyissan shambled by, his gait curiously jerky and his expression blank.
"Doth this condition prevail widely?" Mandorallen asked.
"I've never met a Nyissan yet who wasn't at least partially drugged," Aunt Pol said. "It makes them difficult to talk to. Isn't that the house we're looking for?" She pointed at a solid building across the street.
There was an ominous rumble of thunder off to the south as they crossed to the large house. A Drasnian servant in a linen tunic answered their knock, let them into a dimly lighted antechamber, and told them to wait.
"An evil city," Hettar said quietly. "I can't see why any Alorn in his right mind would come here willingly."
"Money," Captain Greldik replied shortly. "The Nyissan trade is very profitable."
"There are more important things than money," Hettar muttered.
An enormously fat man came into the dim room. "More light," he snapped at his servant. "You didn't have to leave them here in the dark."
"You said that the lamps just made it hotter," the servant protested in a surly tone. "I wish you'd make up your mind."
"Never mind what I said; just do as I say."
"The climate's making you incoherent, Droblek," the servant noted acidly. He lit several lamps and left the room muttering to himself.
"Drasnians make the world's worst servants," Droblek grumbled.
"Shall we get down to business?" He lowered his vast bulk into a chair. The sweat rolled continually down his face and into the damp collar of his brown silk robe.
"My name's Greldik," the bearded seaman said. "I've just arrived at your wharves with a shipload of goods belonging to the merchant, Radek of Boktor." He presented the folded packets of parchment.
Droblek's eyes narrowed. "I didn't know that Radek was interested in the southern trade. I thought he dealt mostly in Sendaria and Arendia."
Greldik shrugged indifferently. "I didn't ask him. He pays me to carry his goods in my ship, not to ask questions about his business."
Droblek looked at them all, his sweating face expressionless. Then his fingers moved slightly.-Is everything here what it seems to be? The Drasnian secret language made his fat fingers suddenly nimble.
Can we speak openly here? Aunt Pol's fingers asked him. Her gestures were stately, somehow archaic. There was a kind of formality to her movements that Garion had not seen in the signs made by others.
As openly as anyplace in this pest-hole - Droblek replied,-You have a strange accent, lady. There's something about it that it seems I should remember- '
I learned the language a very long time ago-she replied.-You know who Radek of Boktor really is, of course-
"Naturally," Droblek said aloud. "Everyone knows that. Sometimes he calls himself Ambar of Kotu - when he wants to have dealings that are not, strictly speaking, legitimate."
"Shall we stop fencing with each other, Droblek?" Aunt Pol asked quietly. "I'm quite certain you've received instructions from King Rhodar by now. All this dancing about is tiresome."
Droblek's face darkened. "I'm sorry," he said stiffly. "I'll need a bit more in the way of verification."
"Don't be an idiot, Droblek," Barak rumbled at the fat man. "Use your eyes. You're an Alorn; you know who the lady is."
Droblek looked suddenly at Aunt Pol, his eyes going very wide. "It's not possible," he gasped.
"Would you like to have her prove it to you?" Hettar suggested. The house shook with a sudden crash of thunder.
"No, no," Droblek refused hastily, still staring at Aunt Pol. "It just never occurred to me - I mean, I just never-" He floundered with it.
"Have you heard from Prince Kheldar or my father?" Aunt Pol asked crisply.
"Your father? You mean-? Is he involved in this too?"
"Really, Droblek," she said tartly, "don't you believe the communications King Rhodar sends you?"
Droblek shook his head like a man trying to clear his mind. "I'm sorry, Lady Polgara," he said. "You surprised me, that's all. It takes a moment to get used to. We didn't think you'd be coming this far south."
"It's obvious then that you haven't received any word from Kheldar or the old man."
"No, my Lady," Droblek said. "Nothing. Are they supposed to be here?"
"So they said. They were either going to meet us here or send word."
"It's very hard to get messages any place in Nyissa," Droblek explained. "The people here aren't very reliable. The prince and your father could be upcountry, and their messenger could very well have gone astray. I sent a messenger to a place not ten leagues from the city once, and it took six months to arrive. The Nyissan who was carrying it found a certain berry patch along the way. We found him sitting in the middle of the patch, smiling." Droblek made a sour face. "There was moss growing on him," he added.