Pawn of Prophecy

by David Eddings

  "I'll be glad to get rid of them," the farmer said. "They've been occupying storage space I sorely need."

  "That's frequently the case when one has dealings with Tolnedrans," Silk observed. "They're gifted at getting a bit more than they pay for even if it's only the free use of someone else's storage sheds."

  The farmer glumly agreed.

  "I wonder," Silk said as if the thought had just occurred to him, "I wonder if you might have seen a friend of mine - Brill by name? A medium-sized man with black hair and beard and a cast to one eye?"

  "Patched clothes and a sour disposition?" the stout farmer asked.

  "That's him," Silk said.

  "He's been about the area," the farmer said, "looking - or so he said - for an old man and a woman and a boy. He said that they stole some things from his master and that he'd been sent to find them."

  "How long ago was that?" Silk asked.

  "A week or so," the farmer said.

  "I'm sorry to have missed him," Silk said. "I wish I had the leisure to look him up."

  "I can't for my life think why," the farmer said bluntly. "To be honest with you, I didn't care much for your friend."

  "I'm not overfond of him myself," Silk agreed, "but the truth is that he owes me some money. I could quite easily do without Brill's companionship, but I'm lonesome for the money, if you take my meaning."

  The farmer laughed.

  "I'd take it as a kindness if you happened to forget that I asked after him," Silk said. "He'll likely be hard enough to find even if he isn't warned that I'm looking for him."

  "You can depend on my discretion," the stout man said, still laughing. "I have a loft where you and your wagoneers can put up for the night, and I'd take it kindly if you'd sup with my workers in the dining hall over there."

  "My thanks," Silk said, bowing slightly. "The ground's cold, and it's been some time since we've eaten anything but the rough fare of the road."

  "You wagoneers lead adventuresome lives," the stout man said almost enviously. "Free as birds with always a new horizon just beyond the next hilltop."

  "It's much overrated," Silk told him, "and winter's a thin time for birds and wagoneers both."

  The farmer laughed again, clapped Silk on the shoulder and then showed him where to put up the horses.

  The food in the stout farmer's dining hall was plain, but there was plenty; and the loft was a bit drafty, but the hay was soft. Garion slept soundly. The farm was not Faldor's, but it was familiar enough, and there was that comforting sense of having walls about him again that made him feel secure.

  The following morning, after a solid breakfast, they loaded the wagons with the Tolnedran's salt-crusted hams and bade the farmer a friendly good-bye.

  The clouds that had begun to bank up in the west the evening before had covered the sky during the night, and it was cold and gray as they set out for Muros, fifty leagues to the south.

  Chapter Nine

  THE ALMOST TWO WEEKS it took them to reach Muros were the most uncomfortable Garion had ever spent. Their route skirted the edge of the foothills through rolling and sparsely settled country, and the sky hung gray and cold overhead. There were occasional spits of snow, and the mountains loomed black against the skyline to the east.

  It seemed to Garion that he would never be warm again. Despite Durnik's best efforts to find dry firewood each night, their fires always seemed pitifully small, and the great cold around them enormously large. The ground upon which they slept was always frozen, and the chill seemed actually to seep into Garion's bones.

  His education in the Drasnian secret language continued and he became, if not adept, at least competent by the time they passed Lake Camaar and began the long, downhill grade that led to Muros.

  The city of Muros in south-central Sendaria was a sprawling, unattractive place that had been since time immemorial the site of a great annual fair. Each year in late summer, Algar horsemen drove vast cattle herds through the mountains along the Great North Road to Muros where cattle buyers from all over the west gathered to await their coming. Huge sums changed hands, and, because the Algar clansmen also commonly made their yearly purchases of useful and ornamental articles at that time, merchants from as far away as Nyissa in the remote south gathered to offer their wares. A large plain which lay to the east of the city was given over entirely to the cattle pens that stretched for miles but were still inadequate to contain the herds which arrived at the height of the season. Beyond the pens to the east lay the more or less permanent encampment of the Algars.

  It was to this city one midmorning at the tag end of the fair, when the cattle pens were nearly empty and most of the Algars had departed and only the most desperate merchants remained, that Silk led the three wagons laden with the hams of Mingan the Tolnedran.

  The delivery of the hams took place without incident, and the wagons soon drew into an innyard near the northern outskirts of the city.

  "This is a respectable inn, great lady," Silk assured Aunt Pol as he helped her down from the wagon. "I've stopped here before."

  "Let's hope so," she said. "The inns of Muros have an unsavory reputation."

  "Those particular inns lie along the eastern edge of town," Silk assured her delicately. "I know them well."

  "I'm certain you do," she said with an arched eyebrow.

  "My profession sometimes requires me to seek out places I might otherwise prefer to avoid," he said blandly.

  The inn, Garion noted, was surprisingly clean, and its guests seemed for the most part to be Sendarian merchants.

  "I thought there'd be many different kinds of people here in Muros," he said as he and Silk carried their bundles up to the chambers on the second floor.

  "There are," Silk said, "but each group tends to remain aloof from the others. The Tolnedrans gather in one part of town, the Drasnians in another, the Nyissans in yet another. The Earl of Muros prefers it that way. Tempers sometimes flare in the heat of the day's business, and it's best not to have natural enemies housed under the same roof."

  Garion nodded. "You know," he said as they entered the chambers they had taken for their stay in Muros, "I don't think I've ever seen a Nyissan."

  "You're lucky," Silk said with distaste. "They're an unpleasant race."

  "Are they like Murgos?"

  "No," Silk said. "The Nyissans worship Issa, the Snake-God, and it's considered seemly among them to adopt the mannerisms of the serpent. I don't find it at all that attractive myself. Besides, the Nyissans murdered the Rivan King, and all Alorns have disliked them since then."

  "The Rivans don't have a king," Garion objected.

  "Not anymore," Silk said. "They did once, though - until Queen Salmissra decided to have him murdered."

  "When was that?" Garion asked, fascinated.

  "Thirteen hundred years ago," Silk said, as if it had only been yesterday.

  "Isn't that sort of a long time to hold a grudge?" Garion asked.

  "Some things are unforgivable," Silk said shortly.

  Since there was still a good part of the day left, Silk and Wolf left the inn that afternoon to search the streets of Muros for those strange, lingering traces that Wolf could apparently see or feel and which would tell him whether the object they sought had passed this way. Garion sat near the fire in the chamber he shared with Aunt Pol, trying to bake the chill out of his feet. Aunt Pol also sat by the fire, mending one of his tunics, her shining needle flickering in and out of the fabric.

  "Who was the Rivan King, Aunt Pol?" he asked her. She stopped sewing.

  "Why do you ask?" she said.

  "Silk was telling me about Nyissans," he said. "He told me that their queen murdered the Rivan King. Why would she do that?"

  "You're full of questions today, aren't you?" she asked, her needle moving again.

  "Silk and I talk about a lot of things as we ride along," Garion said, pushing his feet even closer to the fire.

  "Don't burn your shoes," she told him.

  "Sil
k says that I'm not a Sendar," Garion said. "He says that he doesn't know what I am, but that I'm not a Sendar."

  "Silk talks too much," Aunt Pol observed.

  "You never tell me anything, Aunt Pol," he said in irritation.

  "I tell you everything you need to know," she said calmly. "Right now it's not necessary for you to know anything about Rivan kings or Nyissan queens."

  "All you want to do is keep me an ignorant child," Garion said petulantly. "I'm almost a man, and I don't even know what I am - or who."

  "I know who you are," she said, not looking up.

  "Who am I then?"

  "You're a young man who's about to catch his shoes on fire," she said.

  He jerked his feet back quickly.

  "You didn't answer me," he accused.

  "That's right," she said in that same infuriatingly calm voice.

  "Why not?"

  "It's not necessary for you to know yet. When it's time, I'll tell you, but not until."

  "That's not fair," he objected.

  "The world's full of injustice," she said. "Now, since you're feeling so manly, why don't you fetch some more firewood? That'll give you something useful to think about."

  He glared at her and stamped across the room.

  "Garion," she said.

  "What?"

  "Don't even think about slamming the door."

  That evening when Wolf and Silk returned, the usually cheerful old man seemed impatient and irritable. He sat down at the table in the common room of the inn and stared moodily at the fire. "I don't think it passed this way," he said finally. "There are a few places left to try, but I'm almost certain that it hasn't been here."

  "Then we go on to Camaar?" Barak rumbled, his thick fingers combing his bristling beard.

  "We must," Wolf said. "Most likely we should have gone there first."

  "There was no way to know," Aunt Pol told him. "Why would he go to Camaar if he's trying to carry it to the Angarak kingdoms?"

  "I can't even be certain where he's going," Wolf said irritably. "Maybe he wants to keep the thing for himself. He's always coveted it." He stared into the fire again.

  "We're going to need some kind of cargo for the trip to Camaar," Silk said.

  Wolf shook his head. "It slows us too much," he said. "It's not unusual for wagons to return to Camaar from Muros without cargo, and it's reaching the point where we'll have to gamble our disguise for the sake of speed. It's forty leagues to Camaar, and the weather's turning bad. A heavy snowstorm could stop the wagons entirely, and I don't have time to spend the whole winter mired down in a snowbank."

  Durnik dropped his knife suddenly and started to scramble to his feet.

  "What's amiss?" Barak asked quickly.

  "I just saw Brill," Durnik said. "He was in that doorway."

  "Are you sure?" Wolf demanded.

  "I know him," Durnik said grimly. "It was Brill, all right."

  Silk pounded his fist down on the table.

  "Idiot!" he accused himself. "I underestimated the man."

  "That doesn't matter now," Mister Wolf said, and there was almost a kind of relief in his voice. "Our disguise is useless now. I think it's time for speed."

  "I'll see to the wagons," Durnik said.

  "No," Wolf said. "The wagons are too slow. We'll go to the camp of the Algars and buy good horses." He stood up quickly.

  "What of the wagons?" Durnik persisted.

  "Forget them," Wolf said. "They're only a hindrance now. We'll ride the wagon horses to the camp of the Algars and take only what we can conveniently carry. Let's get ready to leave immediately. Meet me in the innyard as soon as you can." He went quickly to the door and out into the cold night.

  It was only a few minutes later that they all met near the door to the stable in the cobblestoned innyard, each carrying a small bundle. Hulking Barak jingled as he walked, and Garion could smell the oiled steel of his mail shirt. A few flakes of snow drifted down through the frosty air and settled like tiny feathers to the frozen ground.

  Durnik was the last to join them. He came breathlessly out of the inn and pressed a small handful of coins upon Mister Wolf.

  "It was the best I could do," he apologized. "It's scarce half the worth of the wagons, but the innkeeper sensed my haste and bargained meanly." He shrugged then. "At least we're rid of them," he said. "It's not good to leave things of value behind. They nag at the mind and distract one from the business at hand."

  Silk laughed. "Durnik," he said, "you're the absolute soul of a Sendar."

  "One must follow one's nature," Durnik said.

  "Thank you, my friend," Wolf said gravely, dropping the coins in his purse. "Let's lead the horses," he went on. "Galloping through these narrow streets at night would only attract attention."

  "I'll lead," Barak announced, drawing his sword. "If there's any trouble, I'm best equipped to deal with it."

  "I'll walk along beside you, friend Barak;" Durnik said, hefting a stout cudgel of firewood.

  Barak nodded, his eyes grimly bright, and led his horse out through the gate with Durnik closely at his side.

  Taking his lead from Durnik, Garion paused momentarily as he passed the woodpile and selected a good oak stick. It had a comforting weight, and he swung it a few times to get the feel of it. Then he saw Aunt Pol watching him, and he hurried on without any further display.

  The streets through which they passed were narrow and dark, and the snow had begun to fall a bit more heavily now, settling almost lazily through the dead calm air. The horses, made skittish by the snow, seemed to be fearful and crowded close to those who led them.

  When the attack came, it was unexpected and swift. There was a sudden rush of footsteps and a sharp ring of steel on steel as Barak fended off the first blow with his sword.

  Garion could see only shadowy figures outlined against the falling snow, and then, as once before when in his boyhood he had struck down his friend Rundorig in mock battle, his ears began to ring; his blood surged boilingly in his veins as he leaped into the fight, ignoring the single cry from Aunt Pol.

  He received a smart rap on the shoulder, whirled and struck with his stick. He was rewarded with a muffled grunt. He struck again - and then again, swinging his club at those parts of his shadowy enemy which he instinctively knew were most sensitive.

  The main fight, however, surged around Barak and Durnik. The ring of Barak's sword and the thump of Durnik's cudgel resounded in the narrow street along with the groans of their assailants.

  "There's the boy!" a voice rang out from behind them, and Garion whirled. Two men were running down the street toward him, one with a sword and the other with a wicked-looking curved knife. Knowing it was hopeless, Garion raised his club, but Silk was there. The small man launched himself from the shadows directly at the feet of the two, and all three crashed to the street in a tangle of arms and legs. Silk rolled to his feet like a cat, spun and kicked one of the floundering men solidly just below the ear. The man sank twitching to the cobblestones. The other scrambled away and half rose just in time to receive both of Silk's heels in his face as the rat-faced Drasnian leaped into the air, twisted and struck with both legs. Then Silk turned almost casually.

  "Are you all right?" he asked Garion.

  "I'm fine," Garion said. "You're awfully good at this kind of thing."

  "I'm an acrobat," Silk said. "It's simple once you know how."

  "They're getting away," Garion told him.

  Silk turned, but the two he had just put down were dragging themselves into a dark alley.

  There was a triumphant shout from Barak, and Garion saw that the rest of the attackers were fleeing.

  At the end of the street in the snow-speckled light from a small window was Brill, almost dancing with fury. "Cowards!" he shouted at his hirelings. "Cowards!" And then Barak started for him, and he too turned and ran.

  "Are you all right, Aunt Pol?" Garion said, crossing the street to where she stood.

  "Of course I
am," she snapped. "And don't do that again, young man. Leave street brawling to those better suited for it."

  "I was all right," he objected. "I had my stick here."

  "Don't argue with me," she said. "I didn't go to all the trouble of raising you to have you end up dead in a gutter."

  "Is everyone all right?" Durnik asked anxiously, coming back to them.

  "Of course we are," Aunt Pol snapped peevishly. "Why don't you see if you can help the Old Wolf with the horses?"

  "Certainly, Mistress Pol," Durnik said mildly.

  "A splendid little fight," Barak said, wiping his sword as he joined them. "Not much blood, but satisfying all the same."

  "I'm delighted you found it so," Aunt Pol said acidly. "I don't much care for such encounters. Did they leave anyone behind?"

  "Regrettably no, dear lady," Barak said. "The quarters were too narrow for good strokes, and these stones too slippery for good footing. I marked a couple of them quite well, however. We managed to break a few bones and dent a head or two. As a group, they were much better at running than at fighting."

  Silk came back from the alley where he had pursued the two who had tried to attack Garion. His eyes were bright, and his grin was vicious.

  "Invigorating," he said, and then laughed for no apparent reason.

  Wolf and Durnik had managed to calm their wild-eyed horses and led them back to where Garion and the others stood.

  "Is anyone hurt?" Wolf demanded.

  "We're all intact," Barak rumbled. "The business was hardly worth drawing a sword for."

  Garion's mind was racing; in his excitement, he spoke without stopping to consider the fact that it might be wiser to think the whole thing through first.

  "How did Brill know we were in Muros?" he asked.

  Silk looked at him sharply, his eyes narrowing.

  "Perhaps he followed us from Winold," he said.

  "But we stopped and looked back," Garion said. "He wasn't following when we left, and we've kept a watch behind us every day."