"I'll do 'er, Corporal," Vurk replied.
The corporal looked at Silk again, his eyes narrowed appraisingly. "You and your friends are welcome to come along," he offered. "A few men on horseback might be a help in case we run into trouble."
"Thanks all the same, Corporal," Silk declined, "but I think we'll ride over to the Magan and see if we can find a boat. We could be at the mouth of the river in a week or so."
"I'd advise riding hard, then, my friend. Demons can run awful fast when they're hungry."
Silk nodded. "Good luck in Gandahar, Corporal," he added.
"I think I'll stop being a corporal," the fellow said ruefully. "The pay wasn't bad, but the work's getting dangerouser and dangerouser, and all the pay in the world won't do a man much good once he takes up residence inside a demon." He turned to his friend. "Let's move out, Vurk," he ordered.
Silk wheeled his horse and rode back to where the others were waiting, Garion close behind him.
"It's more or less what we thought," the little man reported, dismounting. "The battle up north is between Urvon and Zandramas, and both sides have demons now."
"She went that far?" Polgara asked incredulously.
"She didn't really have that much choice, Polgara," Silk told her. "Nahaz was leading his hordes of demons into the ranks of her troops, and her army was being decimated. She had to do something to stop him. Being captured by a demon is no joke—not even for the Child of Dark."
"All right," Durnik said soberly, "what do we do now?"
"The corporal in charge of those troops made an interesting suggestion," Silk told him.
"Oh? What was that?"
"He recommended that we get out of Peldane as fast as we possibly can."
"Corporals usually have good sense," Durnik noted. "Why don't we follow his advice?"
"I was hoping someone would say that," Silk agreed.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Vella was feeling melancholy. It was an unusual emotion for her, but she found that she rather liked it. There was much to be said for sweet, languorous sadness. She went with quiet dignity through the stately, marble-clad corridors of the palace in Boktor, and everyone gave way to her pensive expression. She chose not to consider the fact that her daggers may have played a certain part in this universal respect.In point of fact, Vella had not drawn a dagger on anyone for almost a week now—the last having been a slightly overfamiliar serving man who had mistaken her bluff camaraderie for an offer of a more intimate friendship. But she had not hurt him very much, and he had forgiven her almost before the bleeding had stopped.
Her destination that early morning was the sitting room of the Queen of Drasnia. In many ways Queen Porenn baffled Vella. She was petite and imperturbable. She carried no daggers and seldom raised her voice, but all of Drasnia and the other Alorn kingdoms held her in universal regard. Vella herself, not knowing exactly why, had acceded to the tiny queen's suggestion that she should customarily garb herself in gowns of lavender satin. A gown is a cumbersome thing that tangles up one's legs and confines one's bosom. Always before, Vella had preferred black leather trousers, boots, and a leather vest. The garb was comfortable and utilitarian. It was sturdy, and yet it provided opportunities for Vella to display her attributes to those whom she wished to impress. Then, on special occasions, she had customarily donned an easily discardable wool dress and a fine diaphanous undergown of rose-colored Mallorean silk that clung to her as she danced. Satin, on the other hand, rustled disturbingly, but felt good against her skin, and it made Vella uncomfortably aware of the fact that there was more to being a woman than a couple pair of daggers and a willingness to use them.
She tapped lightly on Porenn's door. "Yes?" Porenn's voice came to her.
Did the woman never sleep?
"It's me, Porenn—Vella."
"Come in, child."
Vella set her teeth. She was not, after all, a child. She had been abroad in the world since her twelfth birthday. She had been sold—and bought—a half-dozen times, and she had been married for a brief, deliriously happy year to a lean Nadrak trapper named Tekk, whom she had loved to distraction. Porenn, however, seemed to prefer to look upon her as some half-gentled colt in sore need of training. In spite of herself, that thought softened Vella's resentment. The little blond Queen of Drasnia had in some strange way become the mother she had never known, and thoughts of daggers and of being bought and sold slid away under the influence of that wise, gentle voice.
"Good morning, Vella," Porenn said as the Nadrak girl entered her room. "Would you like some tea?" Although the queen always wore black in public, her dressing gown that morning was of the palest rose, and she looked somehow very vulnerable in that soft color.
"Hullo, Porenn," Vella said. "No tea, thanks." She flung herself into a chair beside the blond queen's divan.
"Don't flop, Vella," Porenn told her. "Ladies don't flop."
"I'm not a lady."
"Not yet, perhaps, but I'm working on it."
"Why are you wasting your time on me, Porenn?"
"Nothing worthwhile is ever a waste of time."
"Me? Worthwhile?"
"More than you could possibly know. You're early this morning. Is something troubling you?"
"I haven't been able to sleep. I've been having the strangest dreams lately.''
"Don't let dreams bother you, child. Dreams are sometimes the past, sometimes the future, but mostly they're only that—dreams."
"Please don't call me 'child,' Porenn," Vella objected. "I think if we got right down to it, I'm almost as old as you are."
"In years, perhaps, but years aren't the only way to measure time."
There was a discreet rap at the door.
"Yes?" Porenn replied.
"It's me, your Majesty," a familiar voice said.
"Come in, Margrave Khendon," the queen said.
Javelin had not changed since Vella had last seen him. He was still bone-thin and aristocratic and had a sardonically amused twist to his lips. He wore, as was his custom, a pearl-gray doublet and tight-fitting black hose. His skinny shanks were not shown to any particular advantage by the latter. He bowed rather extravagantly.
"Your Majesty," he greeted the queen, "and my Lady Vella."
"Don't be insulting, Javelin," Vella retorted. "I don't have a title, so don't 'my Lady' me."