Prophecy being what it is, I probably didn't need to bother, but I always like to keep an eye on things. Even the best machine breaks down once in a while, and I'm the only mechanic around who knows how to fix this one.
Following the destruction of Vo Astur, the Mimbrate Duke had proclaimed himself king of all Arendia, but proclamations have very little to do with reality. The Mimbrate "royalty" were little more than puppet kings, their foreign policy dictated from Tol Honeth and their highways patrolled by Tolnedran legionnaires. They had very little time to brood about that, however. Although the Asturian cities and towns had been destroyed, the Asturian nobility and yeomanry remained intact--although greatly diminished. They simply retreated into their forests and took up archery for fun and profit. They shot at trees; they shot at deer; mostly they shot at Mimbrate tax collectors. They ate the deer, but they just let the Mimbrates lie where they fell. As you might expect, the Wildantor family participated enthusiastically.
I looked around a bit, and after I'd assured myself that Leildorin's family was in the right place and doing more or less what it was supposed to be doing, I bought a horse and rode south toward Vo Mandor.
It was early summer, and once I got beyond the gloomy stretches of that forest that blankets northern Arendia, traveling was pleasant. The Great West Road simplified matters enormously. The helpful Tolnedrans had even bridged the River Mallei-in, so I was able to cross without getting my feet wet.
The Arendish Fair stood at the juncture of the Great West Road and the high road that skirted the western edges of Ulgoland. The fair had been there since the time of the First Horbite Dynasty, and its position astride the Great West Road meant that it was policed by Tolnedran legionnaires, which sort of kept down the bloodshed. Tolnedrans won't let anything interfere with commerce, not even an ongoing civil war. I decided that it might not be a bad idea to stop over for a few days to rest my horse and pick up some information.
The Arendish Fair looked like a temporary collection of brightly colored tents, but it'd been there for something like a thousand years and was a commercial center rivaling the cattle fair at Muros in Sendaria.
Since I wanted information, I went looking for Drasnians.
Yes, even back then. The Drasnian intelligence service had been established not long after the Alorn expedition into Nyissa, and, even as today, it relied heavily on merchants. Anytime you see a Drasnian merchant outside the borders of Drasnia itself, you can safely wager that he has some contacts with the intelligence service. He's interested in making money, of course, but he's also interested in information. The kings of Drasnia shrewdly have stressed the fact that gathering information is a Drasnian's patriotic duty, so in most cases the spy-masters in Boktor don't even have to pay for it. That's very helpful when it comes time to balance the budget.
In many ways the Arendish Fair is like a city. It has its shops, its taverns, and even inns for those merchants who don't want to bother bringing their own tents. It's laid out like a city, too, with muddy streets and, in much the same fashion as in Muros, various districts. The Tolnedrans who police the fair are wise enough to segregate the races. Doing business with someone you hate is one thing; camping right next to him is something else.
The Drasnian enclave lay in the northeast quadrant of the fair, so I went there. I didn't look like a merchant, so the Drasnians seemed to ignore me, but nothing really escapes a Drasnian. Of course, the fact that I was scattering recognition signals like a bridesmaid scattering rose petals at a wedding might have helped a little, too.
Eventually a small, sharp-faced merchant with a long, pointed nose emerged from his tent with a feigned expression of surprise on his face.
"Garath!" he exclaimed.
"Can that really be you? I haven't seen you in ten years! What are you doing in Arendia?" His fingers were very busy telling me that he was a professional spy rather than an amateur and that his name was Khaldan.
I reined in my horse.
"Why, strike me blind if it isn't my old friend Khaldan!" I said with a certain enthusiasm. I'd never met him in person, but I definitely knew his father, since I had some plans for his family.
Ultimately, a marriage between Khaldan's family and the royal house of Drasnia was going to produce a sharp-nosed little fellow with some rather remarkable talents. Now that I think about it, that sharp-nosed fellow very closely resembled Khaldan--which probably isn't much of a coincidence.
"Come inside," Khaldan invited me.
"We'll have a few tankards, and you can tell me what you've been up to for all these years."
I dismounted and followed him into his tent.
"Garath?" I asked him incredulously.
"Where did you learn about that name?"
He touched one finger slyly to his nose--evidently a family trait.
"State secret," he replied.
"The Service knows a great deal about you, Ancient One. How can I help you?"
"It's nothing very specific, Khaldan," I replied.
"I'm going south is all, and I just stopped by to see if there was anything I ought to know about."
He shrugged.
"Nothing unusual for Arendia, Ancient One."
I looked meaningfully at his half-open tent flap.
"Not to worry, Garath," he assured me.
"Nobody's going to get near my tent who isn't supposed to. We can talk safely."
"Maybe, but let's not bandy that
"Ancient One" around too much. Is anything major happening between here and the Tolnedran border?"
"You might want to go around the barony of Vo Mandor," he suggested.
"The Baron's having an argument with one of his neighbors just now."
I swore.
"What's the matter?"
"He's the very man I have to see."
"Stay here for a few weeks, then. It won't take him very long to finish up. The Mandor family has quite a reputation here in Mimbre. They're incapable of anything resembling caution, but they've been lucky enough so far that they haven't come up against anything they can't handle."
"I know," I agreed, "and that's not going to change very much in the foreseeable future. Are there very many Murgos here at the fair?"
"Funny you should ask. I was just going to bring it up myself. A Murgo nobleman of some sort rode into the fair a couple days ago. His rank must be fairly exalted, because the other Murgos are falling all over themselves to do what he asks."
"Have you picked up his name, by any chance?"
"I have, and it wasn't by chance, I'm a professional, old friend. He calls himself Achak, but I've been getting a faint smell of deception there."
"What's he look like?"
"Tall, thinner than most Murgos, and he's got white hair and a long beard that's kind of yellowish. I don't think he's very clean. From what I hear, he smells bad."
"Well, well, well," I said.
"How very convenient. Now I won't have to go looking for him."
"You know him?"
"I've known him for centuries. The Gorim of Ulgo told me that he'd come down from Rak Cthol. I've been curious about what he's doing."
"Rak Cthol? You're not saying that this Achak fellow is Ctuchik, are you?"
"Well, I hadn't yet, but I'd have gotten to it eventually, I guess."
"Now that's a name to reckon with." His eyes brightened.
"Would you like to have him killed?"
"Forget it, Khaldan. You wouldn't be able to get an assassin near him. Besides, I might need him later on. Is he doing anything here--aside from terrorizing all the Murgos?"
"He's been holding some extended conferences is about all--Murgos, Nadraks, even a few Thulls. What's he doing here?"
"He's looking for something."
"Oh? What's that?"
I slyly touched my nose.
"State secret," I replied, throwing his own clever remark back in his teeth.
"Where's the Murgo enclave? I think maybe I'd better go have another little tal
k with the disciple of Torak."
"I'll send some men along to guard you."
"That won't be necessary. Ctuchik's not here for a confrontation-not with me, anyway. As soon as he finds out that I know he's here, he'll probably go back to Rak Cthol where he belongs. Did he come here alone?"
"No. He's got a Grolim priest with him--a sycophant, obviously. If Ctuchik decides to get belligerent, you'll be up against two of them, so I'd be a little careful."
"Numbers don't really mean all that much to me, Khaldan. Where's the Murgo enclave?"
"Over on the west side of the fair. Murgos live in black tents, so you can't miss it."
"Good." I stood up.
"I'll be back in a little while." I went outside his tent, remounted, and rode on across the fair to the Murgo enclave.
"You there," I said to the first Murgo I encountered.
"I need to talk with Achak. Where do I find him?"
"Achak doesn't talk to foreigners," he replied insolently.
"He'll talk to me. Go tell him that Belgarath's here to see him."
His face went visibly pale, and he hurried off to a large tent in the middle of the enclave. He came back a moment or so later, and his manners had improved noticeably.
"He'll see you," he said.
"Somehow I thought he might. Lead the way, friend."
He did that, though he didn't seem to care much for the idea. I got the feeling that he didn't want to be within five miles of what he expected to happen when I went into
"Achak's" tent.
Ctuchik wasn't alone. The Grolim Khaldan had mentioned was hovering in the background with a servile expression on his face.
"Awfully good to see you again, old boy," Ctuchik said with one of those bleak smiles pasted to his too-thin face.
"It's been a long time, hasn't it? I was beginning to think I might have offended you."
"Your very existence offends me, Ctuchik. What persuaded you to come down off your mountaintop? Did the stink of your temple finally start to turn your stomach?"
"Blasphemy!" the hovering Grolim gasped.
"Is he serving any purpose?" I asked Ctuchik, jerking my thumb at the Grolim.
"He's my apprentice, Belgarath. I'm teaching him the business."
"Aren't you getting a little above yourself, old boy? Are you taking your own disciples now? Torak might not approve."
"He's a servant, Belgarath, not a disciple, and Torak more or less allows us to do as we please. You might think about that the next time Aldur sends you off on some fool's errand. If you'd like to change Masters, I could put in a good word for you."
"One turncoat in the family's quite enough, Ctuchik, and I'm not going to change sides when I'm winning."
"Are you winning, Belgarath? How strange that I hadn't noticed that.
You might as well get to know my servant here. I expect you'll be seeing a lot of him from now on." He looked at the Grolim.
"Chamdar, this is Belgarath, first disciple of the God Aldur. Don't let his foolish exterior deceive you. He can be troublesome at times."
"One does one's best," I said with a little smirk. I looked more closely at the Grolim. He had scarred cheeks like a Murgo, but there was something a bit different about him. There was a certain boldness about him, and a burning ambition in his eyes that I don't think Ctuchik was aware of.
"You're wasting your time here, Ctuchik," I said then.
"You're not going to find my daughter, no matter how many Murgos you send west, and you're certainly not going to find her yourself. Something like that would have shown up in our instructions."
"We'll see," he replied distantly.
"It was awfully good of you to stop by, old chap. I could have shown Chamdar here a picture of you, but a picture wouldn't have captured the real you."
I actually laughed.
"You're sending a boy to do a man's work, Ctuchik," I told him.
"I'm not going to lead your underling anywhere near Polgara."
"We'll see about that, too. Sooner or later, something's bound to come up that'll force you to go to where she is."
"You've never met my daughter, Ctuchik. Believe me, she can take care of herself. Why don't you take your Grolim and go home? The Godslayer is coming, and there's not a thing you can do about it."
"That particular EVENT hasn't been decided yet, old boy."
"It will be, old boy, and I don't think you're going to like the way it turns out. Are you coming, Chamdar?"
"Coming?" he demanded, sounding baffled.
"Coming where?"
"Don't be childish. As soon as I'm outside this tent, your Master's going to tell you to follow me. It'll be much easier for both of us if we just ride along together."
"That's for my Master to decide," he replied coldly.
"Suit yourself. I'll be riding south from here. If you happen to lose track of me, I'll be in Tol Honeth in a couple of weeks. Ask around when you get there. I shouldn't be too hard to find."
Then I turned and left the tent.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Polgara looked upon the centuries she was obliged to spend in the boisterous Alorn kingdoms as a period of exile. Pol's fond of individual Alorns, but as a race they tend to set her teeth on edge. She yearned to go back to Sendaria. The Sendars aren't as courtly as the Wacite Arends were, but they're a polite, civil people, and civility's very important to my daughter.
I devoted quite a bit of time during those years providing entertainment for the ambitious Chamdar. Every so often, I'd come out of the Vale, randomly select some obscure village in Sendaria or northern Arendia, and kill several Murgos there. Chamdar, of course, would leap to the conclusion that I'd killed them because they were getting too close to Polgara. He'd rush to the place and spend five or six years following the various false trails I'd laid down for him. Then the trails would peter out on him, and we'd start all over again someplace else. I'm sure he knew exactly what I was doing, but he didn't have any choice but to respond.
The fact that he didn't age over the centuries was an indication of some status in Grolim society. He wasn't exactly a disciple, but he was the next thing to it, I suppose.
In the meantime, Polgara remained safe--if not content--in Cherek, or Drasnia, or Algaria. Her common practice during those years was to apprentice a youthful heir to some artisan in a village or small town; and then when the young man reached maturity, she'd set him up in business --much in the way she had with Darion in the forty-fifth century. I never did find out where she got the money for all those business ventures. She invariably posed as a member of the young man's family, an older sister, a cousin, very frequently an aunt, and even once or twice as the young man's mother. The families she thus created were so ordinary that random travelers--or random Angaraks--probably didn't even notice them.
I'm sure it was all very tedious for her, but she'd taken on the chore of hiding the heirs of her own free will, and Pol has a very strong sense of responsibility.
My contribution--keeping Chamdar away from her--was fairly peripheral, but I like to think that it helped, if only a little bit. I'd also periodically look in on all those families I was juggling, and every now and then I'd ease on down into Cthol Murgos to see what the opposition was up to.
Murgo society is unlike any other on the face of the earth, largely because it's built along military lines. They don't have principalities down there; they have military districts instead, each with its own general.
Because of the Murgo obsession with racial purity, Murgo women are kept closely confined, so you never see any women on the streets--just men, all in chain mail. Over the course of the centuries, the various military commanders have passed the spurious crown of Cthol Murgos around, so there've been Goska Dynasties, Cthan Dynasties, Hagga Dynasties, and recently, Urga Dynasties. It didn't really matter who sat on the throne in Rak Goska, however, because Ctuchik has always ruled Cthol Murgos from his turret in Rak Cthol.
The twins continued to work on
their concordance, and Beldin maintained his surveillance in Mallorea. Everything sort of plodded along until the middle of the forty-ninth century with nothing very much happening.
It was one of those quiet periods that crop up from time to time in the history of the world. Then there was a total eclipse of the sun in the spring of 4850. An eclipse isn't all that unusual, so we didn't pay much attention to it--at least not at first. This one was fairly unique, in that it seemed to trigger a significant climate change. Would you believe that it rained off and on for twenty-five years? We almost never saw the sun.
Several months after that eclipse, Beldin came back from Mallorea with some news we'd all been waiting for. He clumped, dripping, up the stairs to my workshop.
"Miserable weather," he muttered.
"I haven't been really dry for the last three months. Have you got anything to drink?
I think I'm chilled all the way to the bone."
"I don't happen to have anything right now," I told him.
"Why don't you go call on the twins?"
"Later, maybe." He slumped down in a chair by the fire and pulled off his soggy shoes.
"It's finally happened, Belgarath," he told me, wriggling his toes.
"What has?"
"Old Burnt-face has finally come out of Ashaba."
"Where did he go?"
"Mal Zeth. Where else? He's deposed the current emperor and taken personal command of the Mallorean Empire." He sneezed.
"You're the expert on Old Angarak. What does the word
"Kal" mean?"
"King and God. It's a Grolim usage that was fairly prevalent at Korim. It's sort of fallen into disuse--probably because Torak's been holed up at Ashaba for the last three eons or so."
"Burnt-face has a long memory, then. He calls himself
"Kal Torak" now, and he's making sure that everybody in Mallorea recognizes the name."
"Is he mobilizing?"
"Not yet. At the moment, he's busy de secularizing Mallorea. He's reintroduced the joys of religion. Urvon's having a field day. His Grolims are butchering everybody they can lay their hands on. The temples from Camat to Gandahar are running knee-deep in blood."
Rivan Codex Series Page 53