Teri McLaren
safe city, she sends her spies to kill me. She does not honor my Lord Chelydrus. We will see if she can't find it within her power to reopen the caravan route now. I do so despise that woman. And you have something else, I see," he crooned.
Yob released his breath at last, his report seemingly acceptable.
"Yes, Overking. I was confused and decided to let you decide what to do with these humans and Og."
Gently nudging a couple of twenty-foot-long yarn-snakes out of the pathway, he ushered his charges to the throne, somewhat more visible after Yob brushed handfuls of baby bushmasters from Rotapan's feet. Cheyne looked on with interest. Rotapan's throne must have been part of the original furnishings of the building; some of the same seashell decorations had been worked into its design. Its carved red marble gleamed with a high polish.
Somewhere during the short walk to the throne, Claria's fear of the deadly reptiles turned to curiosity. None of the snakes seemed the least bit dangerous, their movements languid and lazy. She knew some to be natural enemies-why did they tolerate each other, and how was it that Yob could handle them? Just as she was about to ask, Rotapan raised himself from the throne and stood before them, smiling.
Though she recognized traces of a resemblance, Claria decided instantly that the statue in the desert had been sculpted by an artist whose flattery bordered on deceit. But at least now she knew how he had gotten his name. Rotapan stood only four feet tall to begin with, and looked older than the rock in which he'd been immortalized. Blue eyes, set far too closely together, peered out from a slightly overhung brow, and gray fuzz covered his chin. Wisps of pale hair crowned his head rather than the lush waves the desert artisan had provided. His upper lip lay completely hidden under a huge silver mustache, leaving the lower one to protrude prominently over his weak