"Let's kill the big one with the red whiskers then," other suggested. "He looks like he might be troublesome, and he's probably too stupid to know anything useful."
"I want that one," Barak whispered.
The men in the corridor passed their cell.
"Let's go," Barak said.
It was a short, ugly fight. They swarmed over the startled jailers in a savage rush. Three were down before the others fully realized what was happening. One made a startled outcry, dodged past the fight and ran back toward the stairs. Without thinking, Garion dove in front of the running man. Then he rolled, tangling the man's feet, tripping him up. The guard fell, started to rise, then sagged back down in a limp heap as Silk neatly kicked him just below the ear.
"Are you all right?" Silk asked.
Garion squirmed out from under the unconscious jailer and scrambled to his feet, but the fight was nearly over. Durnik was pounding a stout man's head against the wall, and Barak was driving his fist into another's face. Mandorallen was strangling a third, and Hettar stalked a fourth, his hands out. The wide-eyed man cried out once just as Hettar's hands closed on him. The tall Algar straightened, spun about and slammed the man into the stone wall with terrific force. There was the grating sound of bones breaking, and the man went limp.
"Nice little fight," Barak said, rubbing his knuckles.
"Entertaining," Hettar agreed, letting the limp body slide to the floor.
"Are you about through?" Silk demanded hoarsely from the door by the stairs.
"Almost," Barak said. "Need any help, Durnik?"
Durnik lifted the stout man's chin and examined the vacant eyes critically. Then he prudently banged the jailer's head against the wall once more and let him fall.
"Shall we go?" Hettar suggested.
"Might as well," Barak agreed, surveying the littered corridor.
"The door's unlocked at the top of the stairs," Silk said as they joined him, "and the hallway's empty beyond it. The house seems to be asleep, but let's be quiet."
They followed him silently up the stairs. He paused briefly at the door. "Wait here a moment," he whispered. Then he disappeared, his feet making absolutely no sound. After what seemed a long time, he returned with the weapons the soldiers had taken from them. "I thought we might need these."
Garion felt much better after he had belted on his sword.
"Let's go," Silk said and led them to the end of the hall and around a corner.
"I think I'd like some of the green, Y'diss," Count Dravor's voice came from behind a partially open door.
"Certainly, my Lord," Y'diss said in his sibilant, rasping voice. "The green tastes bad," Count Dravor said drowsily, "but it gives me such lovely dreams. The red tastes better, but the dreams aren't so nice."
"Soon you'll be ready for the blue, my Lord," Y'diss promised. There was a faint clink and the sound of liquid being poured into a glass. "Then the yellow, and finally the black. The black's best of all."
Silk led them on tiptoe past the half open door. The lock on the outside door yielded quickly to his skill, and they all slipped out into the cool, moonlit night. The stars twinkled overhead, and the air was sweet. "I'll get the horses," Hettar said.
"Go with him, Mandorallen," Wolf said. "We'll wait over there." He pointed at the shadowy garden. The two men disappeared around the corner, and the rest of them followed Mister Wolf into the looming shadow of the hedge which surrounded Count Dravor's garden.
They waited. The night was chilly, and Garion found himself shivering. Then there was a click of a hoof touching a stone, and Hettar and Mandorallen came back, leading the horses.
"We'd better hurry," Wolf said. "As soon as Dravor drops off to sleep, Y'diss is going to go down to his dungeon and find out that we've left. Lead the horses. Let's get away from the house before we start making any noise."
They went down through the moonlit garden with the horses trailing along after them until they emerged on the open lawn beyond. They mounted carefully.
"We'd better hurry," Aunt Pol suggested, glancing back at the house.
"I bought us a little time before I left," Silk said with a short laugh.
"How'd you manage that?" Barak asked.
"When I went to get our weapons, I also set fire to the kitchen." Silk smirked. "That will keep their attention for a bit."
A tendril of smoke rose from the back of the house.
"Very clever," Aunt Pol said with a certain grudging admiration.
"Why thank you, my Lady." Silk made a mocking little bow. Mister Wolf chuckled and led them away at an easy trot.
The tendril of smoke at the back of the house became thicker as they rode away, rising black and oily toward the uncaring stars.
Chapter Fifteen
They rode hard for the next several days, stopping only long enough to rest the horses and catch a few hours' sleep at infrequent intervals. Garion found that he could doze in his saddle whenever they walked the horses. He found, indeed, that if he were tired enough, he could sleep almost anyplace. One afternoon as they rested from the driving pace Wolf set, he heard Silk talking to the old man and Aunt Pol. Curiosity finally won out over exhaustion, and he roused himself enough to listen.
"I'd still like to know more about Salmissra's involvement in this," the little man was saying.
"She's an opportunist," Wolf said. "Any time there's turmoil, she tries to turn it to her own advantage."
"That means we'll have to dodge Nyissans as well as Murgos." Garion opened his eyes. "Why do they call her Eternal Salmissra?" he asked Aunt Pol. "Is she very old?"
"No," Aunt Pol answered. "The Queens of Nyissa are always named Salmissra, that's all."
"Do you know this particular one?"
"I don't have to," she told him. "They're always exactly the same. They all look alike and act alike. If you know one, you know them all."
"She's going to be terribly disappointed with Y'diss," Silk observed, grinning.
"I imagine that Y'diss has taken some quiet, painless way out by now," Wolf said. "Salmissra grows a bit excessive when she's irritated."
"Is she so cruel then?" Garion asked.
"Not cruel exactly," Wolf explained. "Nyissans admire serpents. If you annoy a snake, he'll bite you. He's a simple creature, but very logical. Once he bites you, he doesn't hold any further grudges."
"Do we have to talk about snakes?" Silk asked in a pained voice.
"I think the horses are rested now," Hettar said from behind them. "We can go now."
They pushed the horses back into a gallop and pounded south toward the broad valley of the Nedrane River and Tol Honeth. The sun turned warm, and the trees along the way were budding in the first days of spring,
The gleaming Imperial City was situated on an island in the middle of the river, and all roads led there. It was clearly visible in the distance as they crested the last ridge and looked down into the fertile valley and it seemed to grow larger with each passing mile as they approached it. It was built entirely of white marble and it dazzled the eye in the midmorning sun. The walls were high and thick, and towers soared above them within the city.
A bridge arched gracefully across the rippled face of the Nedrane to the bronze expanse of the north gate where a glittering detachment of legionnaires marched perpetual guard.
Silk pulled on his conservative cloak and cap and drew himself up, his face assuming that sober, businesslike expression that meant that he was undergoing a private internal transition that seemed to make him almost believe himself that he was the Drasnian merchant whose identity he assumed.
"Your business in Tol Honeth?" one of the legionnaires asked politely. "I am Radek of Boktor," Silk said with the preoccupied air of a man whose mind was on business. "I have Sendarian woolens of the finest quality."
"You'll probably want to talk with the Steward of the Central Market, then," the legionnaire suggested.
"Thank you." Silk nodded and led them through the gate into the broad and cro
wded streets beyond.
"I think I'd better stop by the palace and have a talk with Ran Borune," Mister Wolf said. "The Borunes aren't the easiest emperors to deal with, but they're the most intelligent. I shouldn't have too much trouble convincing him that the situation's serious."
"How are you going to get to see him?" Aunt Pol asked him. "It could take weeks to get an appointment. You know how they are."
Mister Wolf made a sour face. "I suppose I could make a ceremonial visit of it," he said as they pushed their horses through the crowd.
"And announce your presence to the whole city?"
"Do I have any choice? I have to nail down the Tolnedrans. We can't afford to have them neutral."
"Could I make a suggestion?" Barak asked.
"I'll listen to anything at this point."
"Why don't we go see Grinneg?" Barak said. "He's the Cherek Ambassador here in Tol Honeth. He could get us into the palace to see the Emperor without all that much fuss."
"That's not a bad idea, Belgarath," Silk agreed. "Grinneg's got enough connections in the palace to get us inside quickly, and Ran Borune respects him."
"That only leaves the problem of getting in to see the ambassador," Durnik said as they stopped to let a heavy wagon pass into a side street.
"He's my cousin," Barak said. "He and Anheg and I used to play together when we were children." The big man looked around. "He's supposed to have a house near the garrison of the Third Imperial Legion. I suppose we could ask somebody the way."
"That won't be necessary," Silk said. "I know where it is."
"I should have known." Barak grinned.
"We can go through the north marketplace," Silk said. "The garrison's located near the main wharves on the downstream end of the island."
"Lead the way," Wolf told him. "I don't want to waste too much time here."
The streets of Tol Honeth teemed with people from all over the world. Drasnians and Rivans rubbed elbows with Nyissans and Thulls. There was a sprinkling of Nadraks in the crowd and, to Garion's eye, a disproportionate number of Murgos. Aunt Pol rode close beside Hettar, talking quietly to him and frequently laying her hand lightly on his sword arm. The lean Algar's eyes burned, and his nostrils flared dangerously each time he saw a scarred Murgo face.
The houses along the wide streets were imposing, with white marble facades and heavy doors, quite often guarded by private mercenary soldiers, who glared belligerently at passers-by.
"The Imperial City seems awash with suspicion," Mandorallen observed. "Do they fear their neighbors so?"
"Troubled times," Silk explained. "And the merchant princes of Tol Honeth keep a great deal of the world's wealth in their counting-rooms. There are men along this street who could buy most of Arendia if they wanted to."
"Arendia is not for sale," Mandorallen said stiffly.
"In Tol Honeth, my dear Baron, everything's for sale," Silk told him. "Honor, virtue, friendship, love. It's a wicked city full of wicked people, and money's the only thing that matters."
"I expect you fit right in, then," Barak said.
Silk laughed. "I like Tol Honeth," he admitted. "The people here have no illusions. They're refreshingly corrupt."
"You're a bad man, Silk," Barak stated bluntly.
"So you've said before," the rat-faced little Drasnian said with a mocking grin.
The banner of Cherek, the outline of a white war-boat on an azure background, fluttered from a pole surmounting the gate of the ambassador's house. Barak dismounted a bit stiffly and strode to the iron grill which blocked the gate. "Tell Grinneg that his cousin Barak is here to see him," he announced to the bearded guards inside.
"How do we know you're his cousin?" one of the guards demanded roughly.
Barak reached through the grill almost casually and took hold of the front of the guard's mail shirt. He pulled the man up firmly against the barn. "Would you like to rephrase that question," he asked, "while you still have your health?"
"Excuse me, Lord Barak," the man apologized quickly. "Now that I'm closer, I do seem to recognize your face."
"I was almost sure you would," Barak said.
"Let me unlock the gate for you," the guard suggested.
"Excellent idea," Barak said, letting go of the man's shirt. The guard opened the gate quickly, and the party rode into a spacious courtyard.
Grinneg, the ambassador of King Anheg to the Imperial Court at Tol Honeth, was a burly man almost as big as Barak. His beard was trimmed very short, and he wore a Tolnedran-style blue mantle. He came down the stairs two at a time and caught Barak in a vast bear hug. "You pirate!" he roared. "What are you doing in Tol Honeth?"
"Anheg's decided to invade the place," Barak joked. "As soon as we've rounded up all the gold and young women, we're going to let you burn the city."
Grinneg's eyes glittered with a momentary hunger. "Wouldn't that infuriate them?" he said with a vicious grin.
"What happened to your beard?" Barak asked.
Grinneg coughed and looked embarrassed. "It's not important," he said quickly.
"We've never had any secrets," Barak accused.
Grinneg spoke quietly to his cousin for a moment, looking very ashamed of himself, and Barak burst out with a great roar of laughter. "Why did you let her do that?" he demanded.
"I was drunk," Grinneg said. "Let's go inside. I've got a keg of good ale in my cellar."
The rest of them followed the two big men into the house, and they went down a broad hallway to a room with Cherek furnishings - heavy chairs and benches covered with skins, a rush-strewn floor and a huge fireplace where the butt end of a large log smoldered. Several pitchsmeared torches smoked in iron rings on the stone wall.
"I feel more at home here," Grinneg said.
A servant brought tankards of dark brown ale for them all and then quietly left the room. Garion quickly lifted his tankard and took a large swallow of the bitter drink before Aunt Pol could suggest something more bland. She watched him without comment, her eyes expressionless.
Grinneg sprawled in a large, hand-hewn chair with a bearskin tossed over it. "Why are you really in Tol Honeth, Barak?" he asked.
"Grinneg," Barak said serously, "this is Belgarath. I'm sure you've heard of him."
The ambassador's eyes widened, and he inclined his head. "My house is yours," he said respectfully.
"Can you get me in to see Ran Borune?" Mister Wolf asked, sitting on a rough bench near the fireplace.
"Without any difficulty."
"Good," Wolf said. "I have to talk to him, and I don't want to stir up any fuss in the process."
Barak introduced the others, and his cousin nodded politely to each of them.
"You've come to Tol Honeth during a turbulent period," he said after the amenities were over. "The nobility of Tolnedra are gathering in the city like ravens on a dead cow."
"We picked up a hint or two of that on our way south," Silk told him. "Is it as bad as we heard?"
"Probably worse," Grinneg said, scratching one ear. "Dynastic succession only happens a few times in each eon. The Borunes have been in power now for over six hundred years, and the other houses are anticipating the changeover with a great deal of enthusiasm."
"Who's the most likely to succeed Ran Borune?" Mister Wolf asked.
"Right at the moment the best would probably be the Grand Duke Kador of Tol Vordue," Grinneg answered. "He seems to have more money than the rest. The Honeths are richer, of course, but they've got seven candidates, and their wealth is spread out a little too thin. The other families aren't really in the running. The Borunes don't have anyone suitable, and no one takes the Ranites seriously."
Garion carefully set his tankard on the floor beside the stool he sat on. The bitter ale didn't really taste that good, and he felt vaguely cheated somehow. The half tankard he had drunk made his ears quite warm, though, and the end of his nose seemed a little numb.
"A Vorduvian we met said that the Horbites are using poison," Silk said.
Mister Wolf frowned. "I've never had much success dealing with the Vorduvians. They don't really have imperial stature."
"The old Emperor's still in pretty fair health," Grinneg said. "If he hangs on for another year or two, the Honeths will probably fall into line behind one candidate - whichever one survives - and then they'll be able to bring all their money to bear on the situation. These things take time, though. The candidates themselves are staying out of town for the most part, and they're all being extremely careful, so the assassins are having a great deal of difficulty reaching them." He laughed, taking a long drink of ale. "They're a funny people."
"Could we go to the palace now?" Mister Wolf asked.
"We'll want to change clothes first," Aunt Pol said firmly.
"Again, Polgara?" Wolf gave her a long-suffering look.
"Just do it, father," she said. "I won't let you embarrass us by wearing rags to the palace."
"I'm not going to wear that robe again." The old man's voice was stubborn.
"No," she said. "It wouldn't be suitable. I'm sure the ambassador can lend you a mantle. You won't be quite so obvious that way."
"Whatever you say, Pol." Wolf sighed, giving up.
After they had changed, Grinneg formed up his honorguard, a grim looking group of Cherek warriors, and they were escorted along the broad avenues of Tol Honeth toward the palace. Garion, all bemused by the opulence of the city and feeling just a trifle giddy from the effects of the half tankard of ale he had drunk, rode quietly beside Silk, trying not to gawk at the huge buildings or the richly dressed Tolnedrans strolling with grave decorum in the noonday sun.
Chapter Sixteen
The Imperial Palace sat on a high hill in the center of Tol Honeth. It consisted not of one building, but rather was a complex of many, large and small, all built of marble and surrounded by gardens and lawns where cypress trees cast a pleasing shade. The entire compound was enclosed by a high wall, surmounted by statues spaced at intervals along its top. The legionnaires at the palace gate recognized the Cherek ambassador and sent immediately for one of the Emperor's chamberlains, a gray-haired official in a brown mantle.
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