Demon Lord of Karanda

by David Eddings

  He looked at her thoughtfully. ‘Could you get any idea of what is was, Pol?’

  She shook her head. ‘Not specifically,’ she replied. ‘I think it’s information of some kind. She can’t go any further until she finds it. I was able to pick that much out of her thoughts.’

  ‘Whatever it is has to be well hidden,’ he said. ‘Beldin and I took Ashaba apart after the Battle of Vo Mimbre and we didn’t find anything out of the ordinary—if you can accept the idea that Torak’s house was in any way ordinary.’

  ‘Can we be sure that she’s still there with my baby?’ Ce’Nedra asked intently.

  ‘No, dear,’ Polgara told her. ‘She’s taken steps to hide her mind from me. She’s rather good, actually.’

  ‘Even if she’s left Ashaba, the Orb can pick up her trail again,’ Belgarath said. ‘The chances are pretty good that she hasn’t found what she’s looking for, and that effectively nails her down at Ashaba. If she has found it, she won’t be hard to follow.’

  ‘We’re going on to Ashaba, then?’ Sadi asked. ‘What I’m getting at is that our concern about Mengha was just a ruse to get us to Mallorea, wasn’t it?’

  ‘I think I’m going to need more information before I make any decisions about that. The situation in northern Karanda is serious, certainly, but let’s not lose sight of the fact that our primary goal is Zandramas, and she’s at Ashaba. Before I can decide anything, though, I need to know more about what’s going on here in Mallorea.’

  ‘My department,’ Silk volunteered.

  ‘And mine,’ Velvet added.

  ‘I might be able to help a bit as well,’ Sadi noted with a faint smile. He frowned then. ‘Seriously though, Belgarath,’ he continued, ‘you and your family here represent power. I don’t think we’re going to have much luck at persuading Kal Zakath to let you go willingly—no matter how cordial he may appear on the surface.’

  The old man nodded glumly. ‘It might turn out that way after all,’ he agreed. Then he looked at Silk, Velvet, and Sadi. ‘Be careful,’ he cautioned them. ‘Don’t let your instincts run away with you. I need information, but don’t stir up any hornets’ nests getting it for me.’ He looked pointedly at Silk. ‘I hope I’ve made myself clear about this,’ he said. ‘Don’t complicate things just for the fun of it.’

  ‘Trust me, Belgarath,’ Silk replied with a bland smile.

  ‘Of course he trusts you, Kheldar,’ Velvet assured the little man.

  Belgarath looked at his impromptu spy network and shook his head. ‘Why do I get the feeling that I’m going to regret this?’ he muttered.

  ‘I’ll keep an eye on them, Belgarath,’ Sadi promised.

  ‘Of course, but who’s going to keep an eye on you?’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  That evening they were escorted with some ceremony through the echoing halls of Zakath’s palace to a banquet hall that appeared to be only slightly smaller than a parade ground. The hall was approached by way of a broad, curved stairway lined on either side with branched candelabra and liveried trumpeters. The stairway was obviously designed to facilitate grand entrances. Each new arrival was announced by a stirring fanfare and the booming voice of a gray-haired herald so thin that it almost appeared that a lifetime of shouting had worn him down to a shadow.

  Garion and his friends waited in a small antechamber while the last of the local dignitaries were announced. The fussy chief of protocol, a small Melcene with an elaborately trimmed brown beard, wanted them to line up in ascending order of rank, but the difficulties involved in assigning precise rank to the members of this strange group baffled him. He struggled with it, manfully trying to decide if Sorcerer outranked King or Imperial Princess until Garion solved his problem for him by leading Ce’Nedra out onto the landing at the top of the stairs.

  ‘Their Royal Majesties, King Belgarion and Queen Ce’Nedra of Riva,’ the herald declaimed grandly, and the trumpets blared.

  Garion, dressed all in blue and with his ivory-gowned Queen on his arm, paused on the marble landing at the top of the stairs to allow the brightly clad throng below the time to gawk at him. The somewhat dramatic pause was not entirely his idea. Ce’Nedra had dug her fingernails into his arm with a grip of steel and hissed, ‘Stand still!’

  It appeared that Zakath also had some leaning toward the theatrical, since the stunned silence which followed the herald’s announcement clearly indicated that the Emperor had given orders that the identity of his guests remain strictly confidential until this very moment. Garion was honest enough with himself to admit that the startled buzz which ran through the crowd below was moderately gratifying.

  He began down the stairway, but found himself reined in like a restive horse. ‘Don’t run!’ Ce’Nedra commanded under her breath.

  ‘Run?’ he objected. ‘I’m barely moving.’

  ‘Do it slower, Garion.’

  He discovered then that his wife had a truly amazing talent. She could speak without moving her lips! Her smile was gracious, though somewhat lofty, but a steady stream of low-voiced commands issued from that smile.

  The buzzing murmur that had filled the banquet hall when they had been announced died into a respectful silence when they reached the foot of the stair, and a vast wave of bows and curtsies rippled through the crowd as they moved along the carpeted promenade leading to the slightly elevated platform upon which sat the table reserved for the Emperor and his special guests, domestic and foreign.

  Zakath himself, still in his customary white, but wearing a gold circlet artfully hammered into the form of a wreath woven of leaves as a concession to the formality of the occasion, rose from his seat and came to meet them, thereby avoiding that awkward moment when two men of equal rank meet in public. ‘So good of you to come, my dear,’ he said, taking Ce’Nedra’s hand and kissing it. He sounded for all the world like a country squire or minor nobleman greeting friends from the neighborhood.

  ‘So good of you to invite us,’ she replied with a whimsical smile.

  ‘You’re looking well, Garion,’ the Mallorean said, extending his hand and still speaking in that offhand and informal manner.

  ‘Tolerable, Zakath,’ Garion responded, taking his cue from his host. If Zakath wanted to play, Garion felt that he should show him that he could play, too.

  ‘Would you care to join me at the table?’ Zakath asked. ‘We can chat while we wait for the others to arrive.’

  ‘Of course,’ Garion agreed in a deliberately commonplace tone of voice.

  When they reached their chairs, however, his curiosity finally got the better of him. ‘Why are we playing “just plain folks”?’ he asked Zakath as he held Ce’Nedra’s chair for her. ‘This affair’s a trifle formal for talking about the weather and asking after each other’s health, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘It’s baffling the nobility,’ Zakath replied with aplomb. ‘Never do the expected, Garion. The hint that we’re old, old friends will set them afire with curiosity and make people who thought that they knew everything just a little less sure of themselves.’ He smiled at Ce’Nedra. ‘You’re positively ravishing tonight, my dear,’ he told her.

  Ce’Nedra glowed then looked archly at Garion. ‘Why don’t you take a few notes, dear?’ she suggested. ‘You could learn a great deal from his Majesty here.’ She turned back to Zakath. ‘You’re so very kind to say it,’ she told him, ‘but my hair is an absolute disaster.’ Her expression was faintly tragic as she lightly touched her curls with her fingertips. Actually, her hair was stupendous, with a coronet of braids interwoven with strings of pearls and with a cascade of coppery ringlets spilling down across the front of her left shoulder.

  During this polite exchange, the others in their party were being introduced. Silk and Velvet caused quite a stir, he in his jewel-encrusted doublet and she in a gown of lavender brocade.

  Ce’Nedra sighed enviously. ‘I wish I could wear that color,’ she murmured.

  ‘You can wear any color you want to, Ce’Nedra,’ Garion told
her.

  ‘Are you color-blind, Garion?’ she retorted. ‘A girl with red hair can not wear lavender.’

  ‘If that’s all that’s bothering you, I can change the color of your hair anytime you want.’

  ‘Don’t you dare!’ she gasped, her hands going protectively to the cascade of auburn curls at her shoulder.

  ‘Just a suggestion, dear.’

  The herald at the top of the stairs announced Sadi, Eriond, and Toth as a group, obviously having some difficulty with the fact that the boy and the giant had no rank that he could discern. The next presentation, however, filled his voice with awe and his bony limbs with trembling. ‘Her Grace, the Duchess of Erat,’ he declaimed, ‘Lady Polgara the Sorceress.’ The silence following that announcement was stunned. ‘And Goodman Durnik of Sendaria,’ the herald added, ‘the man with two lives.’

  Polgara and the smith descended the stairs to the accompaniment of a profound silence.

  The bows and curtsies which acknowledged the legendary couple were so deep as to resemble genuflections before an altar. Polgara, dressed in her customary silver-trimmed blue, swept through the hall with all the regal bearing of an Empress. She wore a mysterious smile, and the fabled white lock at her brow glowed in the candlelight as she and Durnik approached the platform.

  Meanwhile, at the top of the stairs, the herald had shrunk back from the next guest, his eyes wide and his face gone quite pale.

  ‘Just say it,’ Garion heard his grandfather tell the frightened man. ‘I’m fairly sure that they’ll all recognize the name.’

  The herald stepped to the marble railing at the front of the landing. ‘Your Majesty,’ he said falteringly, ‘My Lords and Ladies, I have the unexpected honor to present Belgarath the Sorcerer.’

  A gasp ran through the hall as the old man, dressed in a cowled robe of soft gray wool, stumped down the stairs with no attempt at grace or dignity. The assembled Mallorean notables pulled back from him as he walked toward the table where the others had already joined Zakath.

  About halfway to the imperial platform, however, a blond Melcene girl in a low-cut gown caught his eye. She stood stricken with awe, unable to curtsy or even to move as the most famous man in all the world approached her. Belgarath stopped and looked her up and down quite slowly and deliberately, noting with appreciation just how revealing her gown was. A slow, insinuating smile crept across his face, and his blue eyes twinkled outrageously.

  ‘Nice dress,’ he told her.

  She blushed furiously.

  He laughed, reached out, and patted her cheek. ‘There’s a good girl,’ he said.

  ‘Father,’ Polgara said firmly.

  ‘Coming, Pol.’ He chuckled and moved along the carpet toward the table. The pretty Melcene girl looked after him, her eyes wide and her hand pressed to the cheek he had touched.

  ‘Isn’t he disgusting?’ Ce’Nedra muttered.

  ‘It’s just the way he is, dear,’ Garion disagreed. ‘He doesn’t pretend to be anything else. He doesn’t have to.’

  The banquet featured a number of exotic dishes that Garion could not put a name to and several which he did not even know how to eat. A deceptively innocent-looking rice dish was laced with such fiery seasonings that it brought tears to his eyes and sent his hand clutching for his water goblet.

  ‘Belar, Mara, and Nedra!’ Durnik choked as he also groped about in search of water. So far as he could remember, it was the first time Garion had ever heard Durnik swear. He did it surprisingly well.

  ‘Piquant,’ Sadi commented as he calmly continued to eat the dreadful concoction.

  ‘How can you eat that?’ Garion demanded in amazement.

  Sadi smiled. ‘You forget that I’m used to being poisoned, Belgarion. Poison tends to toughen the tongue and fireproof the throat.’

  Zakath had watched their reactions with some amusement. ‘I should have warned you,’ he apologized. ‘The dish comes from Gandahar, and the natives of that region entertain themselves during the rainy season by trying to build bonfires in each other’s stomachs. They’re elephant trappers, for the most part, and they pride themselves on their courage.’

  After the extended banquet, the brown-robed Brador approached Garion. ‘If your Majesty wouldn’t mind,’ he said, leaning forward so that Garion could hear him over the sounds of laughter and sprightly conversation from nearby tables, ‘there are a number of people who are most eager to meet you.’

  Garion nodded politely even though he inwardly winced. He had been through this sort of thing before and knew how tedious it usually became. The Chief of the Bureau of Internal Affairs led him down from the platform into the swirl of brightly clad celebrants, pausing occasionally to exchange greetings with various fellow officials and to introduce Garion. Garion braced himself for an hour or two of total boredom. The plump, bald-headed Brador, however, proved to be an entertaining escort. Though he seemed to be engaging Garion in light conversation, he was in fact providing a succinct and often pointed briefing even as they went.

  ‘We’ll be talking with the kinglet of Pallia,’ he murmured as they approached a group of men in tall, conical felt caps who wore leather which had been dyed an unhealthy-looking green color. ‘He’s a fawning bootlicker, a liar, a coward, and absolutely not to be trusted.’

  ‘Ah, there you are, Brador,’ one of the felt-capped men greeted the Melcene with a forced heartiness.

  ‘Your Highness,’ Brador replied with a florid bow. ‘I have the honor to present his Royal Majesty, Belgarion of Riva.’ He turned to Garion. ‘Your Majesty, this is his Highness, King Warasin of Pallia.’

  ‘Your Majesty,’ Warasin gushed, bowing awkwardly. He was a man with a narrow, pockmarked face, close-set eyes, and a slack-lipped mouth. His hands, Garion noticed, were not particularly clean.

  ‘Your Highness,’ Garion replied with a slightly distant note.

  ‘I was just telling the members of my court here that I’d have sooner believed that the sun would rise in the north tomorrow than that the Overlord of the West would appear at Mal Zeth.’

  ‘The world is full of surprises.’

  ‘By the beard of Torak, you’re right, Belgarion—you don’t mind if I call you Belgarion, do you, your Majesty?’

  ‘Torak didn’t have a beard,’ Garion corrected shortly.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Torak—he didn’t have a beard. At least he didn’t when I met him.’

  ‘When you—?’ Warasin’s eyes suddenly widened. ‘Are you telling me that all those stories about what happened at Cthol Mishrak are actually true?’ he gasped.

  ‘I’m not sure, your Highness,’ Garion told him. ‘I haven’t heard all the stories yet. It’s been an absolute delight meeting you, old boy,’ he said, clapping the stunned-looking kinglet on the shoulder with exaggerated camaraderie. ‘It’s a shame that we don’t have more time to talk. Coming, Brador?’ He nodded to the petty king of Pallia, turned, and led the Melcene away.

  ‘You’re very skilled, Belgarion,’ Brador murmured. ‘Much more so than I would have imagined, considering—’ He hesitated.

  ‘Considering the fact that I look like an unlettered country oaf?’ Garion supplied.

  ‘I don’t know that I’d put it exactly that way.’

  ‘Why not?’ Garion shrugged. ‘It’s the truth, isn’t it? What was pigeyes back there trying to maneuver the conversation around to? It was pretty obvious that he was leading up to something.’

  ‘It’s fairly simple,’ Brador replied. ‘He recognizes your current proximity to Kal Zakath. All power in Mallorea derives from the throne, and the man who has the Emperor’s ear is in a unique position. Warasin is currently having a border dispute with the Prince Regent of Delchin and he probably wants you to put in a good word for him.’ Brador gave him an amused look. ‘You’re in a position right now to make millions, you know.’

  Garion laughed. ‘I couldn’t carry it, Brador,’ he said. ‘I visited the royal treasury at Riva once, and I know how much a mill
ion weighs. Who’s next?’

  ‘The Chief of the Bureau of Commerce—an unmitigated, unprincipled ass. Like most Bureau Chiefs.’

  Garion smiled. ‘And what does he want?’

  Brador tugged thoughtfully at one earlobe. ‘I’m not entirely certain. I’ve been out of the country. Vasca’s a devious one, though, so I’d be careful of him.’

  ‘I’m always careful, Brador.’

  The Baron Vasca, Chief of the Bureau of Commerce, was wrinkled and bald. He wore the brown robe that seemed to be almost the uniform of the bureaucracy, and the gold chain of his office seemed almost too heavy for his thin neck. Though at first glance he appeared to be old and frail, his eyes were as alert and shrewd as those of a vulture. ‘Ah, your Majesty,’ he said after they had been introduced, ‘I’m so pleased to meet you at last.’

  ‘My pleasure, Baron Vasca,’ Garion said politely.

  They chatted together for some time, and Garion could not detect anything in the baron’s conversation that seemed in the least bit out of the ordinary.

  ‘I note that Prince Kheldar of Drasnia is a member of your party,’ the baron said finally.

  ‘We’re old friends. You’re acquainted with Kheldar then, Baron?’

  ‘We’ve had a few dealings together—the customary permits and gratuities, you understand. For the most part, though, he tends to avoid contact with the authorities.’

  ‘I’ve noticed that from time to time,’ Garion said.

  ‘I was certain that you would have. I won’t keep your Majesty. Many others here are eager to meet you, and I wouldn’t want to be accused of monopolizing your time. We must talk again soon.’ The baron turned to the Chief of the Bureau of Internal Affairs. ‘So good of you to introduce us, my dear Brador,’ he said.

  ‘It’s nothing, my dear Baron,’ Brador replied. He took Garion by the arm, and they moved away from Vasca.

  ‘What was that all about?’ Garion asked.

  ‘I’m not altogether sure,’ Brador replied, ‘but whatever he wanted, he seems to have gotten.’