There was no longer any need for stealth. Alarm bells rang in every quarter of the Temple, and frightened Grolims scurried this way and that, shouting contradictory orders to each other. Garion ran among them, desperately looking for Belgarath and Silk.
As he rounded a corner, a wild-faced Grolim caught him by the arm. “Were you there in the Sanctum when it happened?” he demanded.
“No,” Garion lied, trying to free his arm.
“They say that he was ten feet tall, and that he blasted a dozen priests into nothingness before he extinguished the fires.”
“Oh?” Garion said, still trying to free himself from the
Grolim’s grasp.
“Some people say that it was Belgarath the Sorcerer himself.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
“Who else would have that much power?” The Grolim stopped suddenly, his eyes going very wide. “You know what this means, don’t you?” he asked in a trembling voice.
“What?”
“The Sanctum will have to be rededicated, and that requires Grolim blood. Dozens of us will have to die before the Sanctum is purified.”
“I really have to go,” Garion told him, tugging at the arm the man held fast in both hands.
“Chabat will wade to the hips in our blood,” the priest moaned hysterically, ignoring Garion’s words.
There was really no choice. Things were much too urgent for diplomacy. Garion feigned a frightened expression as he looked past the babbling Grolim’s shoulder. “Is that her coming?” he whispered hoarsely.
The Grolim turned his head to look in fright back over his shoulder. Garion carefully measured him and then smashed his fist into the unprotected side of the terrified man’s face. The Grolim slammed back against the wall, his eyes glazed and vacant. Then he collapsed in a heap on the floor.
“Neat,” Silk said from a dark doorway a few yards up the hall, “but the reason for it escapes me.”
“I couldn’t get loose from him,” Garion explained, bending to take hold of the unconscious man. He dragged him into a shadowy alcove and propped him up in a sitting position. “Have you got any idea where Grandfather is?”
“He’s in here,” Silk replied, jerking his thumb over his shoulder at the door behind him. “What happened?”
“I’ll tell you in a minute. Let’s get in out of sight.”
They went through the doorway to find Belgarath seated on the edge of a table. “What’s going on out there?” he demanded.
“I found Eriond.”
“Good.”
“No, not really. He went into the Sanctum just as the Grolims were about to sacrifice a slave and put out the fires.”
“He did what?”
“I think it was him. I was there and I know that it wasn’t me. He just walked in and told them that they couldn’t sacrifice people any more, and then the fires went out. Grand- father, he didn’t make a sound when he did it—no surge, no noise, nothing.”
“Are you sure it was him? I mean—it wasn’t something natural?”
Garion shook his head. “No. The fires flared up and then went out like blown-out candles. There were other things going on, too. The voice talked to me and I couldn’t even move a muscle. The Grolims who were dragging the slave to the altar just let him go when Eriond told them to. Then he told them all that they won’t ever be able to relight the fires.”
“Where’s the boy now?”
“They’re taking him to Chabat.”
“Couldn’t you stop them?”
“I was told not to.” Garion tapped his forehead.
“I should have expected that,” Belgarath said irritably. “We’d better go warn Pol and the others. We may have to free Eriond and then fight our way out of here.” He opened the door, looked out into the hallway, and motioned Garion and Silk to follow him.
Polgara’s face was deathly pale when the three of them re-entered the room where she and the others were waiting. “You didn’t find him,” she said. It was not exactly a question.
“Garion did,” Belgarath replied.
She turned to Garion. “Why isn’t he with you, then?” she demanded.
“I’m afraid the Grolims have him, Aunt Pol.”
“We’ve got a problem here, Pol,” Belgarath said gravely. “From what Garion says, Eriond went into the Sanctum and put out the fires.”
“What?” she exclaimed.
Garion spread his hands helplessly. “He just walked in and made the fires go out. The Grolims seized him and they’re taking him to Chabat.”
“This is very serious, Belgarath,” Sadi said. “Those fires are supposed to burn perpetually. If the Grolims believe that the boy was responsible, he’s in very great danger.”
“I know,” the old man agreed.
“All right, then,” Durnik said quietly. “We’ll just have to go take him away from them.” He stood up, and Toth silently joined him.
“But our ship is almost ready,” Sadi protested. “We could be out of here with no one the wiser.”
“There’s nothing we can do about that now.” Belgarath’s face was grimly determined.
“Let me see if I can salvage something out of this mess before any of you do anything irreversible,” Sadi pleaded. “There’ll always be time for more direct action if I can’t talk our way out of this.”
Garion looked around. “Where’s Ce’Nedra?” he asked.
“She’s asleep,” Polgara replied. “Liselle’s with her.”
“Is she all right? Silk said that she was upset. She isn’t sick again, is she?”
“No, Garion. It was the sounds coming from the Sanctum. She couldn’t tolerate them.”
A heavy fist suddenly pounded on the bolted door. Garion jumped and instinctively reached for his sword. “Open up in there!” a harsh voice commanded from outside.
“Quickly,” Sadi hissed, “all of you get back into your cells and try to look as if you’ve been sleeping when you come out.”
They hurried back into the cells and waited breathlessly while the thin eunuch went to the door and unbolted it. “What’s the matter, reverend sirs?” he asked mildly as the Grolims burst into the room with drawn weapons.
“You have been summoned to an audience with the Hierarch, slaver,” one of them snarled. “You and all your servants.”
“We’re honored,” Sadi murmured.
“You’re not being honored. You’re to be interrogated. I’d advise you to speak the truth, because Agachak has the power to pull you very slowly out of your skin if you lie to him.”
“What an unpleasant notion. Has the Hierarch returned from the Drojim Palace then?”
“Word has been sent to him of the monstrous crime one of your servants has committed.”
“Crime? What crime?”
The Grolim ignored him. “On Chabat’s orders, you are all to be confined until Agachak returns to the Temple.”
Garion and the others were roughly shaken out of their feigned sleep and marched through the smoky corridors and down a narrow flight of stone steps into the basement. Unlike the rooms above, these cells were secured with barred iron doors, and the narrow halls had about them that peculiar sour odor that permeates prisons and dungeons the world over. One of the Grolims opened a barred door and gestured for them to enter.
“Is this really necessary, good Priest?” Sadi protested. The Grolim put his hand threateningly on his sword hilt. “Calm yourself, sir,” Sadi said. “I was merely asking.”
“Inside! Now!”
They all filed into the cell, and the black-robed priest slammed it behind them. The sound of the key grating in the lock seemed very loud for some reason.
“Garion,” Ce’Nedra said in a frightened little voice, “What’s happening? Why are they doing this?”
He put his arm comfortingly about her shoulders. “Eriond got into trouble,” he explained. “Sadi’s going to try to talk us all out of this.”
“What if he can’t?”
“Then we’ll do it the other way.” Silk looked around at the dimly lit cell with a disdainful sniff. “Dungeons always show such a lack of imagination,” he remarked, scuffing at the moldy straw littering the floor with one foot.
“Have you had such a wide experience with dungeons, Kheldar?” Velvet asked him.
“I’ve been in a few from time to time.” He shrugged. “I’ve never found it convenient to stay for more than a few hours.” He raised up on his tiptoes to peer out through the small barred window in the door. “Good,” he said, “no guards.” He looked at Belgarath. “Do you want me to open this?” he asked, tapping on the door with one knuckle. “I don’t think we can accomplish very much from in here.”
“Please be patient, Prince Kheldar,” Sadi said. “If we break out of this cell, I’ll never be able to smooth this over.”
“I’ve got to find out what they’ve done with Eriond,”
Polgara told the eunuch firmly. “Go ahead and open it,
Silk,”
“Polgara?” a light, familiar voice came from the next cell. “Is that you?”
“Eriond!” she said with relief. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine, Polgara. They put chains on me, but they aren’t too uncomfortable.”
“Why did you do that—what you did in the Sanctum?”
“I didn’t like those fires.”
“I didn’t either, but—”
“I really didn’t like them, Polgara. That sort of thing has to be stopped, and we have to start somewhere.”
“How did you put them out?” Belgarath asked through the barred window in the door. “Garion was there when you did it and he says that he didn’t hear or feel anything.”
“I’m not sure, Belgarath. I don’t think I actually did anything special to make them go out. I just decided that I didn’t want them to burn any more, so I sort of let them know how I felt, and they just went out.”
“That’s all?”
“As closely as I can remember, yes.”
Belgarath turned from the door, his face baffled. “When we get out of here, that boy and I are going to have a very long talk about this. I’ve meant to do that about a half-dozen times, and every time I make up my mind, I get smoothly diverted.” He looked at Garion. “The next time you talk to your friend, tell him to stop that. It irritates me.”
“He already knows that, Grandfather. I think that’s why he does it.”
Somewhere down the corridor outside, a heavy iron door clanged open, and there came the sound of marching feet.
“Grolims,” Silk said quietly from the barred window.
“Who else?” Belgarath asked sourly.
The approaching group stopped outside, and a key grated in the lock of Eriond’s cell. The door creaked open. “You, boy,” a harsh voice barked. “Come with us.”
“Father,” Polgara whispered urgently.
The old man held up one hand. “Wait,” he muttered.
Then someone rattled a key in the lock of their cell door, and it also clanged open. “Agachak has returned,” the Grolim in the open doorway announced curtly. “You will come out of there now.”
“Splendid,” Sadi said with relief. “Whatever this is all about, I’m sure it can be cleared up in just a few minutes.”
“No talking!” The Grolim turned abruptly and started down the corridor while a dozen of his fellows fell in behind the prisoners with drawn weapons.
Agachak, the Hierarch of Rak Urga, was a cadaverous-looking man with a long beard. He sat upon a thronelike chair in a large room lighted by glaring torches and hung with dark maroon drapes. The Hierarch’s hooded robe was bloodred, and his sunken eyes burned beneath their shaggy gray brows.
Eriond, still in chains, sat calmly on a rough wooden stool before him, and the slim priestess, Chabat, her purple-lined hood pushed back and the red scars on her cheeks seeming to reflect the torchlight, stood at her master’s elbow with a look of cruel triumph on her face.
“Which one of you is Ussa of Sthiss Tor?” the Hierarch demanded in a hollow-sounding voice.
Sadi stepped forward with an oily bow. “I am Ussa, Holy One,” he said.
“You’re in a great deal of trouble, Ussa,” Chabat told him, her throaty voice almost purring. Her lips twisted into an ugly smirk.
“But I have done nothing.”
“Here in Cthol Murgos, the master is responsible for the misdeeds of the servant.”
Agachak’s eyes bored into Sadi, though his bony white face remained expressionless. “Let us proceed,” he commanded. “Who is to present the evidence in this matter?”
Chabat turned and gestured to a hooded Grolim standing near the wall. “Sorchak will serve as the priest-inquisitor, Master,” she replied in the tone of one who feels fully in charge of a situation. “I’m sure you’re aware of his zeal.”
“Ah, yes,” Agachak said in a noncommittal tone. “I might have guessed that it would be Sorchak.” The faintest hint of sardonic amusement touched his lips. “Very well, priest-inquisitor, you may present the charges.”
The black-robed Grolim stepped forward, pushing his green-lined hood back from his tangled hair. “The matter itself is simple, my Lord,” he declared in his strident voice. “There were dozens of witnesses present, so there can be no question of this young villain’s guilt. The implications of that guilt, however, must be pursued.”
“Pronounce your sentence, Great Hierarch,” Chabat urged the dead-looking man on the throne. “I will wring the whole truth from this greasy Nyissan and from his servants.”
“I have heard talk of guilt, Chabat,” he replied, “but I have still not heard the charges or the evidence.”
Chabat looked slightly taken aback by his words. “I but thought to spare you the tedium of a formal inquiry, Master. I am convinced of the truth of Sorchak’s words. You have always accepted my judgment in such matters before.”
“Perhaps,” Agachak said, “but I think that this time I might like to judge for myself.” He looked at the greasy- haired priest standing before him. “The charges, Sorchak,” he said. “Exactly what is it that the young man is accused of doing?” There was a faint note of dislike in the Hierarch’s voice.
Sorchak’s bulging eyes grew slightly less certain as he sensed Agachak’s unspoken animosity. Then he drew himself up. “Early this evening,” he began, “just as the holiest rite of our faith was about to be performed on the altar in the Sanctum, this young man entered and extinguished the altar Fires. That is what he did, and it is that of which I accuse him. I swear that he is guilty.”
“Absurd,” Sadi protested. “Are the fires at the altar not perpetually attended? How could this boy have gotten close enough to them to put them out?”
“How dare you question the sworn word of a priest of Torak?” Chabat said angrily, her scarred cheeks writhing. “Sorchak has sworn to his guilt, and therefore he is guilty. To question the word of a priest is death.”
Agachak’s sunken eyes were veiled as he looked at her. “I think that I might like to hear the evidence that has so persuaded you and the priest-inquisitor for myself, Chabat,” he said in a flat voice. “Accusation and guilt are not always the same thing, and the question raised by Ussa is quite relevant.”
A faint hope surged through Garion at the Hierarch’s words. Agachak knew. He was completely aware of Chabat’s involvement with Sorchak, and the very eagerness with which she defended the rancid-smelling Grolim’s every word affronted her master.
“Well, priest-inquisitor,” Agachak continued, “how did this boy manage to put out the altar fires? Has there been some laxity in guarding them?”
Sorchak’s eyes grew wary as he realized that he was on dangerous ground. “I have many witnesses, my Lord,” he declared. “There is universal agreement by all who were present that the Sanctum was desecrated by means of sorcery.”
“Ah, sorcery, is it? That would explain everything, of course.” Agachak paused, his dreadful eyes fixed on the now-sweating Sorchak. “I have noticed, however, that the cry ‘witch’ or ‘sorcerer’ is frequently raised when there is a lack of solid evidence. Is there no other explanation for what happened in the Sanctum? Is the priest-inquisitor’s case so weak that he must fall back on so tired and worn-out an accusation?”
Chabat’s expression was incredulous, and Sorchak began to tremble.
“Fortunately, the matter is easily resolved,” Agachak added. “The gift of sorcery has a slight drawback. Others with the same gift can clearly sense the use of the power.” He paused. “You didn’t know that, did you, Sorchak? A priest of the Green hoping for elevation to the Purple would have been more diligent in his studies and would have known that—but you have been otherwise occupied, haven’t you?” He turned to the priestess at his side. “I am surprised, however, that you did not instruct your protégé here more completely before you let him make this kind of charge, Chabat. You might have prevented his making a fool of himself— and of you.”
Her eyes blazed, and the flamelike scars on her face went livid; then suddenly they began to glow as if an inner fire were running beneath her skin.
“Well, Chabat,” he said in a calm, deadly voice, “has the moment come then? Will you finally try your will against mine?”
The awful question hung in the air, and Garion found that he was holding his breath. Chabat, however, averted her eyes and turned her face away from the Hierarch, the fires in her cheeks fading.
“A wise decision, Chabat.” Agachak turned to Sadi. “Well, Ussa of Sthiss Tor, how say you to the charge that your servant here is a sorcerer?”
“The priest of Torak is in error, my Lord,” Sadi replied diplomatically. “Believe me, this young dunce is no sorcerer. He spends ten minutes every morning trying to decide which of his shoes goes on which foot. Look at him. There’s not the faintest glimmer of intelligence in those eyes. He doesn’t even have sense enough to be afraid.”
Chabat’s eyes grew angry again, though there was in them now a faint hint that she was no longer so sure of herself. “What would a Nyissan slaver know of sorcery, Master?” she sneered. “You know of the habits of the snake-people. Doubtless this Ussa’s mind is so fuddled with drugs that one of his servants could be Belgarath himself, and he wouldn’t know it.”
“A very interesting point,” Agachak murmured. “Now, let us examine this matter. We know that the altar fires went out. That much is certain. Sorchak declares that this young man extinguished them by means of sorcery—though he has no proof to substantiate that charge. Ussa of Sthiss Tor, who may be drugged to the point of insensibility, maintains that the young man is a simpleton and thus totally incapable of so extraordinary an act. Now, how may we resolve this dilemma?”
“Put them to the torment, Holy One,” Chabat suggested eagerly. “I myself will wring the truth from them—one by one.”
Garion tensed himself and looked carefully at Belgarath. The old man stood quite calmly with his short, silvery beard gleaming in the ruddy torchlight. He gave no sign that he might be preparing for any kind of direct action.
“Your fondness for the torture chamber is well known, Chabat,” Agachak was saying coldly. “Your skill is such that your victims usually say exactly what you want them to say—which is not always the absolute truth.”
“I do but serve my God, Master,” she declared proudly.
“We all serve here, my Holy Priestess,” he rebuked her, “and you would be wise not to assert your own excessive piety in order to elevate yourself—or your underling for that matter.” He looked at Sorchak with undisguised contempt. “I am still Hierarch here, and I will make the final decision in this matter.”
The scar-faced priestess shrank back, her eyes suddenly fearful. “Forgive me, Agachak,” she stammered. “This monstrous crime has filled me with righteous outrage, but as you say, the final decision is wholly yours.”
“I find your acceptance of my authority gratifying, Chabat. I thought you might have forgotten.”
Just then there was a stir at the back of the torchlit room. Two burly Murgos with long, polished halberds in their hands rudely pushed aside the Grolims clustered near the door. With their dark faces impassive, they banged the butts of their weapons on the floor in unison. “Make way!” one of them boomed. “Make way for Urgit, High King of Cthol Murgos!”
The man who sauntered into the room surrounded by guards looked like no Murgo Garion had ever seen before. He was short and had a slender but wiry build. His black hair was lank and his features narrow. His robe was carelessly open at the front, revealing the fact that, instead of the customary mail shirt, he wore a western-style doublet and hose of rich purple. His iron crown was perched somewhat rakishly on one side of his head. His expression was sardonic, but his eyes were wary. “Agachak,” he greeted the Hierarch perfunctorily, “I gave some thought to the news which was brought to you at the Drojim, and I finally concluded that I might be of some use to you in sorting out the cause of this regrettable incident.”
“The Temple is honored by the presence of the High King,” Agachak intoned formally.
“And the High King is honored to be so kindly received by the Hierarch of Rak Urga,” Urgit replied. He looked around. “Do you have a chair handy?” he asked. “I’ve had along, tiring day.”
“See to it,” Agachak said flatly to the priestess standing beside his throne.
Chabat blinked, then a slow flush mounted her cheeks. “A chair for his Majesty,” she commanded harshly, “and be quick about it.”
One of the Grolims near the door scurried out and returned a moment later with a heavy chair.
“Thanks awfully,” the King said, sinking into the chair. He looked at Agachak. “I have a small confession to make, Holy One,” he said with an apologetic cough. “As I was about to enter your presence in this room, I lingered for a time in the hallway outside, hoping to acquaint myself with the details of this affair.” He laughed shortly. “Listening at doors is an old habit of mine, I’m afraid. It comes from my anxious childhood. Anyway, I managed to hear the charges presented by the priest-inquisitor. To be perfectly candid, Agachak, he’s got a very shaky case.” He gave the Hierarch a quick, ingratiating look. “But of course you’ve already pointed that out, haven’t you?”
Agachak nodded briefly, his face unreadable.
“Now,” Urgit went on quickly, “I most certainly wouldn’t want to interfere in what is clearly a Church matter, but wouldn’t you say that there are dozens of possible natural explanations for this incident?” He looked hopefully at Agachak; then reassured by the look of agreement on the Hierarch’s face, he continued. “I mean, we’ve all seen fires go out before, haven’t we? Do we really need to go so far afield to come up with a reason for this really unremarkable occurrence? Isn’t it more likely that the keepers of the Temple fires grew careless and that the fires just went out on their own—as fires starved for fuel are likely to do?”
“Absolute nonsense!” the greasy-haired Sorchak snapped.
Urgit flinched visibly, his eyes going in appeal to Agachak.
“You forget yourself, priest-inquisitor,” the Hierarch said. -”Our guest is the High King of Cthol Murgos; if you offend him, I may decide to give him your head by way of apology.”
Sorchak swallowed hard. “Please forgive me, your Majesty,” he choked. “I spoke before I thought.”
“Quite all right, old boy.” Urgit forgave him with a magnanimous wave of his hand. “Sometimes we all speak too quickly when we’re excited.” He turned back to the Hierarch. “I regret this catastrophe as much as anyone, Agachak,” he said, “but this Nyissan slaver was sent here by Jaharb, and both you and I know how desperately urgent his mission is to the Church and to the State. Don’t you think that as a matter of policy we could let this incident pass?”
“Surely you’re not just going to let these charges drop?” Chabat’s voice was shrill as she faced the Hierarch. “Who is to be punished for the desecration of the Sanctum?”
Urgit’s face grew unhappy, and he once again appealed to Agachak for support with pleading eyes. Garion clearly saw that this was not a strong king. Even the slightest resistance to his diffidently offered proposals made him instinctively retreat or seek support from someone he perceived to be stronger.
Agachak turned slowly to look the scarred priestess full in the face. “All this shouting is beginning to weary me, Chabat,” he told her bluntly. “If you can’t modulate your voice, you can leave.”
She stared at him in stunned disbelief.
“There is far more at stake here than the fact that some fires went out,” he said to her. “As was foretold ages ago, the time for the final meeting between the Child of Light and the Child of Dark is at hand. If I am not the one who is present at that meeting, you will find yourself bowing to either Urvon or Zandramas. I doubt that either one of them would find your antics amusing enough to make them decide to let you go on living. As for the charge of sorcery, there’s an easy way to settle that once and for all.” He rose from his throne, walked across to Eriond, and placed one hand on each side of his head.
Aunt Pol drew in her breath sharply, and Garion carefully began to gather in his will.
Eriond looked up into the face of the dead-looking Hierarch with a gentle smile on his face.
“Faugh!” Agachak said in disgust, pulling his hands quickly back, “This beardless boy is an innocent. There’s no evidence in his mind that he has ever tasted power.” He turned to look at Sorchak. “I find your charges groundless, priest-inquisitor, and I dismiss them.”
Sorchak’s face went white, and his eyes bulged.
“Have a care, Sorchak,” the Hierarch said ominously. “If you protest my decision too strenuously, I might just decide that this whole incident was your fault. Chabat is sick with disappointment that she has no one to torture to death.” His look grew sly as he glanced at the priestess. “Would you like to have Sorchak, my dear?” he asked her. “I have always delighted in giving you these little gifts. I’ll even watch with some pleasure while you slowly pull out his entrails with red-hot hooks.”
Chabat’s flame-marked face was filled with chagrin. Gar-ion saw that she had been convinced that the Hierarch, as he apparently had so many times in the past, would meekly accede to her peremptory demands, and she had staked all of her prestige on the punishment of Sadi, for whom she had developed an instantaneous dislike. Agachak’s unexpected and almost contemptuous rejection of the accusations she and Sorchak had leveled struck at the very foundations of her puffed-up self-esteem, but more importantly at her position of power here hi the Temple. Unless she could somehow salvage something—anything—out of this, her many enemies would inevitably pull her down. Garion fervently hoped that Sadi realized that she was even more dangerous now than she had been when she had thought she held the upper hand.
Her narrowed eyes grew cautious as she assessed the Hierarch’s mood, then she drew herself up and addressed King Urgit. “There is also a civil crime here, your Majesty,” she told him. “I had believed that the desecration of the Sanctum was more serious, but since our revered Hierarch has discovered in his wisdom that those charges were unfounded, it is now my duty to advise you of a crime against the State.”
Urgit exchanged a quick look with Agachak, then slouched lower in his chair, his eyes unhappy. “The Crown is always ready to listen to the words of the priesthood,” he replied without much enthusiasm.
Chabat gave Sadi another look of smug triumph and open hatred. “Since the founding of our nation, the vile drugs and poisons of the snake-people have been forbidden in Cthol Murgos by royal decree,” she pointed out. “After this Ussa and his servants were confined in the dungeon, I had their belongings searched.” She turned. “Bring in that case,” she ordered.
A side door opened, and an obsequious underpriest entered, carrying Sadi’s red leather case. The fanatic Sorchak took it from him, his face also gleefully triumphant. “Behold the evidence that Ussa of Sthiss Tor has violated our law and that his life is forfeit,” he said in his strident voice. He undid the latch, opened the case, and displayed Sadi’s many vials and the earthenware bottle where Zith resided.
Urgit’s face grew even more unhappy. He looked uncertainly at Sadi. “Is there some explanation for this, Ussa?” he asked hopefully.
Sadi’s face took on an exaggerated expression of innocence. “Surely your Majesty could not believe that I ever intended to try to distribute those items here in Cthol Mur-gos,” he protested.
“Well,” Urgit said lamely, “you have got them with you.”
“Of course, but they’re for trade with the Malloreons. There’s quite a market for this sort of thing among those people.”
“I wouldn’t be in the least surprised,” Urgit said, straightening in his chair. “Then you had no intention of peddling your drugs to my subjects?”
“Most certainly not, your Majesty,” Sadi replied indignantly.
Urgit’s expression grew relieved. “Well,” he said to the glowering Chabat, “there you have it, then. Certainly none of us could object to the fact that our Nyissan friend here is bent on corrupting the Malloreons—the more the better, I’d say.”
“What about this?” Sorchak said, putting Sadi’s case on the floor and lifting out the earthenware bottle. “What secret is hidden in here, Ussa of Sthiss Tor?” He shook the bottle.
“Be careful, man!” Sadi exclaimed, leaping forward with his hand outstretched.
“Ah-ha!” Chabat exclaimed triumphantly. “It appears that there is something in that bottle that the slaver considers important. Let us examine the contents. It may yet be that some undiscovered crime lurks here. Open the bottle, Sorchak.”
“I beg of you,” Sadi pleaded. “If you value your life, do not tamper with that bottle.”
“Open it, Sorchak,” Chabat ordered relentlessly.
The smirking Grolim shook the bottle again and then began to work out the stopper.
“Please, noble Priest!” Sadi’s voice was anguished.
“We’ll just have a look.” Sorchak grinned. “I’m sure that one look won’t hurt anything.” He drew out the cork and raised the bottle to his eye to peer in.
Zith, of course, took immediate action.
With a strangled shriek, Sorchak arched backward, flinging both arms into the air. The earthenware bottle sailed upward, and Sadi caught it just before it struck the floor. The stricken priest clapped both hands over his eye. There was a look of horror on his face, and blood spurted out from between his fingers. He began to squeal like a pig, all of his limbs convulsing. He suddenly pitched forward, threshing wildly and clawing tatters of skin from his face. He began to bang his head on the floor. His convulsions grew more violent and he began to froth at the mouth. With a shrill shriek, he suddenly leaped high into the air. When he came down, he was dead.
There was a moment of stunned silence, then Chabat suddenly shrieked, “Sorchak!” Her voice was filled with anguish and insupportable loss. She flew to the side of the dead man and fell across his body, sobbing uncontrollably.
Urgit stared in open-mouthed revulsion at Sorchak’s corpse. “Torak’s teeth!” he swore in a strangled whisper, “what have you got in that bottle, Ussa?”
“Uh—it’s a pet, your Majesty,” Sadi replied nervously. “I did try to warn him.”
“Indeed you did, Ussa,” Agachak crooned. “We all heard you. Do you suppose I might see this pet of yours?” A cruel smile crossed his face as he looked gloatingly at the hysterically sobbing Chabat.
“Certainly, Holy One,” Sadi answered quickly. He carefully laid the bottle on the floor. “Just a precaution,” he apologized. “She’s a little excited, and I wouldn’t want her to make any mistakes.” He leaned over the bottle. “It’s all right now, dear,” he said soothingly to the vengeful little reptile lurking inside. “The bad man has gone away, and everything is fine now.”
Zith sulked in her bottle, still greatly offended.
“Really, dear,” Sadi assured her, “it’s all right. Don’t you trust me?”
There was a snippy little hiss from inside the bottle.
“That’s a very naughty thing to say, Zith,” Sadi gently reproved her. “I did everything I could to keep him from disturbing you.” He looked apologetically at Agachak. “I really don’t know where she picks up such language, Holy One,” he declared. He turned his attention back to the bottle. “Please, dear, don’t be nasty.”
Another spiteful little hiss came from the bottle.
“Now that’s going entirely too far, Zith. You come out of there at once.”
Cautiously the little green snake poked her head out of the bottle, raised herself, and looked at the corpse on the floor. Sorchak’s face was a ghastly blue color, and the foam was drying on his lips. Chabat, still weeping hysterically, clung to his stiffening body. Zith slithered the rest of the way out of her little house, dismissed the dead man with a contemptuous flick of her tail, and crawled to Sadi, purring with a smug little sound of self-satisfaction. Sadi reached down his hand to her, and she nuzzled affectionately at his fingers. “Isn’t she adorable?” he said fondly. “She’s always so kittenish after she bites someone.”
A slight movement caught Garion’s eye. Velvet was leaning forward, looking at the contentedly purring little reptile with an expression of wholly absorbed fascination.
“You’ve got her under control, haven’t you, Ussa?” Urgit asked in a faintly apprehensive voice.
“Oh, yes, your Majesty,” Sadi assured him. “She’s perfectly content now. In a little bit, I’ll give her a light snack and a nice little bath, and she’ll sleep like a baby.”
Urgit turned back to the Hierarch. “Well, Agachak?” he said, “what’s your decision? Personally, I see no reason to continue this investigation. The slaver and his servants appear to be quite blameless.”
The Hierarch considered it, his eyes hooded. “I believe you’re right, your Majesty.” He turned to one of his Grolims. “Free this idiot boy,” he said, pointing at Eriond.
Chabat, her scarred face ravaged by grief, slowly raised herself from Sorchak’s body. She looked first at Urgit and then at Agachak. “And what of this?” she demanded in a voice vibrant with her emotion. “What of this?” She indicated the stiffening Sorchak at her feet. “Who is to be punished for this? Upon whom shall I wreak my vengeance?”
“The man died through his own act, Chabat,” Agachak dismissed her demand. “There was no crime involved.”
“No crime?” Her voice was choked. “No crime?” It rose in a crescendo. “Are Grolim lives so cheap that you will now throw them away?” She spun and fixed Sadi with her burning eyes. “You will pay for this, Ussa of Sthiss Tor,” she declared. “I swear it upon the body of Sorchak and upon that of Torak. You will never escape me. I will have revenge upon you and all your servants for the death of Sorchak.”
“Why are you so upset, Chabat?” Agachak asked with malicious amusement in his hollow voice. “There are scores of Grolims in the Temple. Sorchak was one like all the rest— greedy, ambitious, and deceitful. His death was the result of his own folly—and of yours.” A cruel smile touched his thin lips. “Could it be that your interest in this dead Grolim was personal? You have long been my favorite, Chabat. I trusted you entirely. Is it possible that you have been unfaithful to me, seeking entertainment in the arms of another?”
Her face blanched, and she lifted one trembling hand to her lips as she realized that she had gone too far and revealed too much.
Agachak laughed, a chilling sound. “Did you actually believe that I was so engrossed in my search for the Sardion that I was not aware of your private amusements?” He paused. “Tell me, Chabat,” he said in an offhand way, “did you and Sorchak ever succeed in raising a demon?”
She drew back, her eyes wide with sudden terror as she faced her master.
“I thought not,” he murmured. “What a shame. All that effort wasted. Perhaps you need a new partner in your midnight rites, Chabat. Sorchak’s heart was never really in your attempts anyway. He was nothing more than a cheap opportunist, so your loss is not as great as you might think. Do you know what he called you in private?” he asked her, his eyes alight.
She shook her head numbly.
“I have it on the very best authority that he customarily referred to you as ‘that scar-faced hag.’ Does that in any way mollify your grief?”
Chabat recoiled from him, her face suffused with mortification as she realized that she had just been cruelly humiliated in public. She whirled in rage and kicked the dead man in his unfeeling side. “Scar-faced hag?” she shrieked, kicking the body again. “Scar-faced hag? Rot, Sorchak! And may the worms enjoy your stinking carcass!” Then she spun and fled, sobbing, from the room.
“She seems a trifle distraught,” Urgit observed mildly.
Agachak shrugged. “The shattering of illusions is always painful.”
Urgit pulled absently at his pointed nose. “Her distraction, however, raises certain risks here, Agachak,” he said thoughtfully. “The mission of this slaver is vital to both of us, and an hysterical woman—particularly one with the kind of power Chabat possesses—can be very dangerous. She obviously bears Ussa here a certain enmity, and since he was involved in both her humiliation and the death of Sorchak, I’d say that right now the Temple might not be the safest place in the world for him.”
Agachak nodded gravely. “Your Majesty’s point is well taken.”
Urgit’s face brightened as if an idea had just occurred to him. “Agachak,” he said, “what would you say to the notion of my keeping Ussa and his servants at the Drojim until we can see him safely on his way? That would put him beyond Chabat’s reach in the event that her distraction impels her into any kind of rashness.” He paused nervously. “It’s entirely up to you, Holy Agachak,” he added quickly.
“There is much to what you say, Urgit,” Agachak replied. “A small slip here could put you at the mercy of Kal Zakath and me on my knees before either Urvon or Zandramas. Let us by all means avoid those disasters.” He turned to Sadi. “You and your servants will accompany his Majesty to the Drojim Palace, Ussa. I’ll have your belongings sent along later. You’ll be safe there, and your ship will be ready in a few days.” He smiled ironically. “I hope you appreciate our tender concern for your well-being.”
Sadi bowed. “I am overwhelmed with gratitude, Holy One,” he said.
“I’ll keep the Dagashi Kabach here in the Temple, however,” Agachak said to the King. “That way each of us will have in his hands a vital element in the mission to Rak Hagga. It should encourage us to co-operate.”
“Of course,” Urgit agreed hastily, “I quite understand.” He rose to his feet. “The hour grows late,” he noted. “I’ll return to the Drojim now and leave you to your many religious duties, Dread Hierarch.”
“Give my regards to the Lady Tamazin, your noble mother,” Agachak responded.
“I will, Agachak. I know that she’ll be smothered with joy to know that you remembered her. Come along then, Ussa.” He turned and started toward the door.
“May the spirit of Torak go with you, your Majesty,” Agachak called after him.
“I certainly hope not,” Urgit muttered to Sadi as they passed through the doorway.
“Your Majesty’s arrival came at a critical moment,” Sadi said quietly as the two of them led the way down the hall. “Things were getting a bit tense.”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” Urgit said sourly. “If it weren’t for the absolute necessity of getting Kabach to Rak Hagga, I’d never have risked a confrontation with the Grolims. I’m sure you’re a nice enough fellow, but I have my own skin to consider.”
When they were outside the nail-studded doors of the Temple, the Murgo King straightened and drew in a deep breath of the cool night air. “I’m always glad to get out of that stinking place,” he declared. He motioned to one of his guards. “Go get the horses,” he commanded.
“At once, your Majesty.”
Then Urgit turned back to the shaven-headed Nyissan. “All right, you sly fox,” he said in an amused tone, “now perhaps you’d like to tell me what you’re doing down here in Cthol Murgos—and why you’ve assumed this pose. I almost fainted dead away when I discovered that the mysterious Ussa of Sthiss Tor was none other than my old friend Sadi, Chief Eunuch in the palace of Queen Salmissra.”