"Ah!"
"Indeed," the agent agreed bitterly. "You wouldn't believe the size of the bribes some of those men are asking for their votes, worthy Radek."
"It's an opportunity that comes only once in a lifetime, I suppose," Silk said.
"I don't begrudge any man the right to a decent, reasonable bribe," the stout agent complained, "but some of the men on the council have gone mad with greed. No matter what position I get in the new government, it's going to take me years to recoup what I've already been obliged to contribute. It's the same all over Tolnedra. Decent men are being driven to the wall by taxes and all these emergency subscriptions. You don't dare let a list go by that doesn't have your name on it, and there's a new list out every day. The expense is making everyone desperate. They're killing each other in the streets of Tol Honeth."
"That bad?" Silk asked.
"Worse than you can imagine," the customs man said. "The Horbites don't have the kind of money it takes to conduct a political campaign, so they've started to poison off council members. We spend millions to buy a vote, and the next day our man turns black in the face and falls over dead. Then we have to raise more millions to buy up his successor. They're absolutely destroying me. I don't have the right kind of nerves for politics."
"Terrible," Silk sympathized.
"If Ran Borune would only die," the Tolnedran complained desperately. "We're in control now, but the Honeths are richer than we are. If they unite behind one candidate, they'll be able to buy the throne right out from under us. And all the while Ran Borune sits in the palace doting on that little monster he calls a daughter and with so many guards around that we can't persuade even the bravest assassin to make an attempt on him. Sometimes I think he intends to live forever."
"Patience, Excellency," Silk advised. "The more we suffer, the greater the rewards in the end."
The Tolnedran sighed. "I'll be very rich someday then. But I've kept you long enough, worthy Radek. I wish you good speed and cold weather in Tol Honeth to bring up the price of your wool."
Silk bowed formally, remounted his horse and led the party at a trot away from the customs station. "It's good to be back in Tolnedra again," the weasel-faced little man said expansively once they were out of earshot. "I love the smell of deceit, corruption, and intrigue."
"You're a bad man, Silk," Barak said. "This place is a cesspool."
"Of course it is." Silk laughed. "But it isn't dull, Barak. Tolnedra's never dull."
They approached a tidy Tolnedran village as evening fell and stopped for the night in a solid, well-kept inn where the food was good and the beds were clean. They were up early the next morning; after breakfast they clattered out of the innyard and onto the cobblestoned street in that curious silver light that comes just before the sun rises.
"A proper sort of place," Durnik said approvingly, looking around at the white stone houses with their red-tiled roofs. "Everything seems neat and orderly."
"It's a reflection of the Tolnedran mind," Mister Wolf explained. "They pay great attention to details."
"That's not an unseemly trait," Durnik observed.
Wolf was about to answer that when two brown-robed men ran out of a shadowy side street.
"Look out!" the one in the rear yelled. "He's gone mad!"
The man running in front was clutching at his head, his face contorted into an expression of unspeakable horror. Garion's horse shied violently as the madman ran directly at him, and Garion raised his right hand to try to push the bulging-eyed lunatic away. At the instant his hand touched the man's forehead, he felt a surge in his hand and arm, a kind of tingling as if the arm were suddenly enormously strong, and his mind filled with a vast roaring. The madman's eyes went blank, and he collapsed on the cobblestones as if Garion's touch had been some colossal blow.
Then Barak nudged his horse between Garion and the fallen man.
"What's this all about?" he demanded of the second robed man who ran up, gasping for breath.
"We're from Mar Terrin," the man answered. "Brother Obor couldn't stand the ghosts anymore, so I was given permission to bring him home until his sanity returned." He knelt over the fallen man. "You didn't have to hit him so hard," he accused.
"I didn't," Garion protested. "I only touched him. I think he fainted."
"You must have hit him," the monk said. "Look at the mark on his face."
An ugly red welt stood on the unconscious man's forehead.
"Garion," Aunt Pol said, "can you do exactly what I tell you to do without asking any questions?"
Garion nodded. "I think so."
"Get down off your horse. Go to the man on the ground and put the palm of your hand on his forehead. Then apologize to him for knocking him down."
"Are you sure it's safe, Polgara?" Barak asked.
"It will be all right. Do as I told you, Garion."
Garion hesitantly approached the stricken man, reached out, and laid his palm on the ugly welt. "I'm sorry," he said, "and I hope you get well soon." There was a surge in his arm again, but quite different from the first one.
The madman's eyes cleared, and he blinked.
"Where am I?" he asked. "What happened?" His voice sounded very normal, and the welt on his forehead was gone.
"It's all right now," Garion told him, not knowing exactly why he said it. "You've been sick, but you're better now."
"Come along, Garion," Aunt Pol said. "His friend can care for him now."
Garion went back to his horse, his thoughts churning.
"A miracle!" the second monk exclaimed.
"Hardly that," Aunt Pol said. "The blow restored your friend's mind, that's all. It happens sometimes." But she and Mister Wolf exchanged a long glance that said quite plainly that something else had happened, something unexpected.
They rode on, leaving the two monks in the middle of the street.
"What happened?" Durnik asked, a stunned look on his face.
Mister Wolf shrugged. "Polgara had to use Garion," he said. "There wasn't time to do it any other way."
Durnik looked unconvinced.
"We don't do it often," Wolf explained. "It's a little cumbersome to go through someone else like that, but sometimes we don't have any choice."
"But Garion healed him," Durnik objected.
"It has to come from the same hand as the blow, Durnik," Aunt Pol said. "Please don't ask so many questions."
The dry awareness in Garion's mind, however, refused to accept any of their explanations. It told him that nothing had come from outside. With a troubled face he studied the silvery mark on his palm. It seemed different for some reason.
"Don't think about it, dear," Aunt Pol said quietly as they left the village and rode south along the highway. "It's nothing to worry about. I'll explain it all later." Then, to the caroling of birds that greeted the rising sun, she reached across and firmly closed his hand with her fingers.
Chapter Thirteen
It took them three days to pass through the forest of Vordue. Garion, remembering the dangers of the Arendish forest, was apprehensive at first and watched the shadows beneath the trees nervously, but after a day or so with nothing out of the ordinary occurring, he began to relax. Mister Wolf, however, seemed to grow increasingly irritable as they rode south. "They're planning something," he muttered. "I wish they'd get on with it. I hate to ride with one eye over my shoulder every step of the way."
Garion had little opportunity along the way to speak with Aunt Pol about what had happened to the crazy monk from Mar Terrin. It seemed almost as if she were deliberately avoiding him; when he finally did manage to ride briefly beside her and question her about the incident, her answers were vague and did little to quiet his unease about the whole affair.
It was the middle of the morning on the third day when they emerged from the trees and rode out into open farmland. Unlike the Arendish plain where vast tracts of land seemed to lie fallow, the ground here was extensively cultivated, and low stone walls surrounded each fiel
d. Although it was still far from being warm, the sun was very bright, and the well-turned earth in the fields seemed rich and black as it lay waiting for sowing. The highway was broad and straight, and they encountered frequent travelers along the way. Greetings between the party and these travelers were restrained but polite, and Garion began to feel more at ease. This country appeared to be much too civilized for the kind of dangers they had encountered in Arendia.
About midafternoon they rode into a sizable town where merchants in variously colored mantles called to them from booths and stalls which lined the streets, imploring them to stop and look at merchandise.
"They sound almost desperate," Durnik said.
"Tolnedrans hate to see a customer get away," Silk told him. "They're greedy."
Ahead, in a small square, a disturbance suddenly broke out. A half dozen slovenly, unshaven soldiers had accosted an arrogant-looking man in a green mantle.
"Stand aside, I say," the arrogant man protested sharply.
"We just want a word or two with you, Lembor," one of the soldiers said with an evil-looking leer. He was a lean man with a long scar down one side of his face.
"What an idiot," a passer-by observed with a callous laugh. "Lembor's gotten so important that he doesn't think he has to take any precautions."
"Is he being arrested, friend?" Durnik inquired politely.
"Only temporarily," the passer-by said dryly.
"What are they going to do to him?" Durnik asked.
"The usual."
"What's the usual?"
"Watch and see. The fool should have known better than to come out without his bodyguards."
The soldiers had surrounded the man in the green mantle, and two of them took hold of his arms roughly.
"Let me go," Lembor protested. "What do you think you're doing?"
"Just come along quietly, Lembor," the scar-faced soldier ordered. "It will be a lot easier that way." They began pulling him toward a narrow alleyway.
"Help!" Lembor shouted, desperately trying to struggle.
One of the soldiers smashed the captive in the mouth with his fist, and they pulled him into the alley. There was a single, short scream and the sounds of a brief scuffle. There were other sounds as well, a few grunts and the grating sound of steel on bone, then a long, sighing moan. A wide rivulet of bright blood trickled out of the mouth of the alley and ran into the gutter. A minute or so later, the soldiers came back out into the square, grinning and wiping their swords.
"We've got to do something," Garion said, sick with outrage and horror.
"No," Silk said bluntly. "What we have to do is mind our own business. We're not here to get involved in local politics."
"Politics?" Garion objected. "That was deliberate murder. Shouldn't we at least see if he's still alive?"
"Not too likely," Barak said. "Six men with swords can usually do a pretty thorough job."
A dozen other soldiers, as shabby-looking as the first group, ran into the square with drawn swords.
"Too late, Rabbas." The scar-faced soldier laughed harshly to the leader of the newcomers. "Lembor doesn't need you anymore. He just came down with a bad case of dead. It looks like you're out of work."
The one called Rabbas stopped, his expression dark. Then a look of brutal cunning spread across his face. "Maybe you're right, Kragger." His voice was also harsh. "But then again we might be able to create a few vacancies in Elgon's garrison. I'm sure he'd be happy to hire good replacements." He began to move forward again, his short sword swinging in a low, dangerous arc.
Then there came the sound of a jingling trot, and twenty legionnaires in a double column came into the square, their feet striking the cobblestones in unison. They carried short lances, and they stopped between the two groups of soldiers. Each column turned to face one group, their lances leveled. The breastplates of the legionnaires were brightly burnished, and their equipment was spotless.
"All right, Rabbas, Kragger, that's enough," the sergeant in charge said sharply. "I want both of you off the street immediately."
"These swine killed Lembor, Sergeant," Rabbas protested.
"That's too bad," the sergeant said without much sympathy. "Now clear the street. There's not going to be any brawling while I'm on duty."
"Aren't you going to do something?" Rabbas demanded.
"I am," the legionnaire said. "I'm clearing the street. Now get out of here."
Sullenly, Rabbas turned and led his men out of the square.
"That goes for you too, Kragger," the sergeant ordered.
"Of course, Sergeant," Kragger said with an oily smirk. "We were just leaving anyway."
A crowd had gathered, and there were several boos as the legionnaires herded the sloppy-looking soldiers out of the square.
The sergeant looked around, his face dangerous, and the boos died immediately.
Durnik hissed sharply. "Over there on the far side of the square," he said to Wolf in a hoarse whisper. "Isn't that Brill?"
"Again?" Wolf's voice held exasperation. "How does he keep getting ahead of us like this?"
"Let's find out what he's up to," Silk suggested, his eyes bright.
"He'd recognize any of us if we tried to follow him," Barak warned.
"Leave that to me," Silk said, sliding out of his saddle.
"Did he see us?" Garion asked.
"I don't think so," Durnik said. "He's talking to those men over there. He isn't looking this way."
"There's an inn near the south end of town," Silk said quickly, pulling off his vest and tying it to his saddle. "I'll meet you there in an hour or so." Then the little man turned and disappeared into the crowd.
"Get down off your horses," Mister Wolf ordered tersely. "We'll lead them."
They all dismounted and led their mounts slowly around the edge of the square, staying close to the buildings and keeping the animals between them and Brill as much as possible.
Garion glanced once up the narrow alleyway where Kragger and his men had dragged the protesting Lembor. He shuddered and looked away quickly. A green-mantled heap lay in a grimy corner, and there was blood splashed thickly on the walls and the filthy cobblestones in the alley.
After they had moved out of the square, they found the entire town seething with excitement and in some cases consternation. "Lembor, you say?" an ashen-faced merchant in a blue mantle exclaimed to another shaken man. "Impossible."
"My brother just talked to a man who was there," the second merchant said. "Forty of Elgon's soldiers attacked him in the street and cut him down right in front of the crowd."
"What's going to happen to us?" the first man asked in a shaking voice.
"I don't know about you, but I'm going to hide. Now that Lembor's dead, Elgon's soldiers are probably going to try to kill us all."
"They wouldn't dare."
"Who's going to stop them? I'm going home."
"Why did we listen to Lembor?" the first merchant wailed. "We could have stayed out of the whole business."
"It's too late now," the second man said. "I'm going to go home and bar my doors." He turned and scurried away.
The first man stared after him and then he too turned and fled.
"They play for keeps, don't they?" Barak observed.
"Why do the legions allow it?" Mandorallen asked.
"The legions stay neutral in these affairs," Wolf said. "It's part of their oath."
The inn to which Silk had directed them was a neat, square building surrounded by a low wall. They tied their horses in the courtyard and went inside. "We might as well eat, father," Aunt Pol said, seating herself at a table of well-scrubbed oak in the sunny common room.
"I was just- " Wolf looked toward the door which led into the taproom.
"I know," she said, "but I think we should eat first."
Wolf sighed. "All right, Pol."
The serving-man brought them a platter of smoking cutlets and heavy slabs of brown bread soaked in butter. Garion's stomach was still a bit
shaky after what he had witnessed in the square, but the smell of the cutlets soon overcame that. They had nearly finished eating when a shabby-looking little man in a linen shirt, leather apron and a ragged hat came in and plunked himself unceremoniously at the end of their table. His face looked vaguely familiar somehow. "Wine!" he bawled at the serving-man, "and food." He squinted around in the golden light streaming through the yellow glass windows of the common room.
"There are other tables, friend," Mandorallen said coldly.
"I like this one," the stranger said. He peered at each of them in turn, and then he suddenly laughed. Garion stared in amazement as the man's face relaxed, the muscles seeming to shift under his skin back into their normal positions. It was Silk.
"How did you do that?" Barak asked, startled.
Silk grinned at him and then reached up to massage his cheeks with his fingertips. "Concentration, Barak. Concentration and lots of practice. It makes my jaws ache a bit, though."
"Useful skill, I'd imagine - under the right circumstances," Hettar said blandly.
"Particularly for a spy," Barak said.
Silk bowed mockingly.
"Where did you get the clothes?" Durnik asked,
"Stole them." Silk shrugged, peeling off the apron.
"What's Brill doing here?" Wolf asked.
"Stirring up trouble, the same as always," Silk replied. "He's telling people that a Murgo named Asharak is offering a reward for any information about us. He describes you quite well, old friend - not very flatteringly, but quite well."
"I expect we'll have to deal with this Asharak before long," Aunt Pol said. "He's beginning to irritate me."
"There's another thing." Silk started on one of the cutlets. "Brill's telling everyone that Garion is Asharak's son - that we've stolen him and that Asharak's offering a huge reward for his return."
"Garion?" Aunt Pol asked sharply.
Silk nodded. "The kind of money he's talking about is bound to make everyone in Tolnedra keep his eyes open." He reached for a piece of bread.
Garion felt a sharp pang of anxiety.
"Why me?" he asked.
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