Even the soil rejected Torak.
The house at Ashaba was black basalt, naturally. It was Torak's favorite color--or lack of it. It stood on the east side of a sterile plateau that seemed incapable of sustaining any kind of vegetation except for leprous grey lichens and dead-white toadstools, and it was backed up against a lowering cliff.
The place was immense, and it was surmounted with ugly, graceless towers and spires that stabbed up toward the scudding clouds roiling overhead. It was walled in, naturally. It was an Angarak building, and Angaraks put walls around everything--even pigpens. Our simplest course would have been to come to roost inside the wall, but Beldin veered off and settled to earth just outside the main gate. I swooped in and dropped to the ground beside him even as he was shimmering back into his own form.
I also changed back.
"What's the problem?"
"Let's probe around a bit before we go blundering in. Torak may have left a few surprises behind."
"I guess that makes sense."
Beldin concentrated, his ugly face twisting with the effort.
"There's nobody home," he said after a moment.
"Any sign of Hounds?"
"Look for yourself. I'm going to poke around and see if there are any traps lurking inside."
I sensed nothing at all. There weren't even any rats inside. So far as I could tell, there weren't even any bugs.
"Anything?" Beldin asked.
"Nothing at all. Did you find anything?"
"No. The place is safe." He squinted at the gate, and I felt his Will building. Then he released it, and the huge iron gate burst inward with a thunderous detonation.
"What did you do that for?" I demanded.
"Just me quaint way o' leavin' my callin' card, don't y' know," he replied in that tired old Wacite brogue he was so fond of.
"Old burnt-face might come back someday, an' I'd like fer him t' know that we stopped by."
"I think you're getting senile."
"Well, you're the expert on that. Let's go inside."
We went through the shattered gate, crossed the courtyard, and warily approached a huge, nail-studded black door surmounted by the inevitable polished steel mask. Evidently Torak had felt that any house he lived in was by definition a temple, "Be my guest," Beldin offered, pointing at the door.
"Don't be ridiculous." I took hold of the massive iron door handle, twisted it, and opened the door, The house of Torak had an entryway that was about the size of a grand ballroom, and there was a majestic staircase just opposite the door.
"Should we start down here?" Beldin asked me.
"No, let's go up to the top and work our way down. You would recognize Old Angarak script if you saw it, wouldn't you?"
"I think so. It looks kind of spidery, doesn't it?"
"More or less. We'll split up. Look into any book you find in a language you can read, and gather up any in Old Angarak script. I'll sort through them later."
The place was vast--more for show, I think, than out of any real need for that much room. Many of the chambers on the upper floors didn't even have furniture in them. It still took us weeks to thoroughly investigate the house, though, since it was at least as big as Anheg's palace at Val Alorn.
At first, Beldin grew very excited each time he found a book or scroll written in Old Angarak, but most of them turned out to be nothing more than copies of the Book of Torak. Most of the people at Ashaba had been Grolims, and every Grolim in the world owns a copy of the Holy Book of the Angaraks. After the first few times he came running down a hallway waving one of those books in the air, I sat him down and patiently gave him some instruction in the Old Angarak alphabet. After that he was able to recognize copies of the Book of Torak and to discard them.
We finally found Torak's library on the second floor of the castle, and it was there that we spent so much time. There might be more books at the University of Tol Honeth or the one in Melcene, but not very many.
A pair of ordinary scholars would have taken decades to examine all those books, but Beldin and I have certain advantages. We can identify the contents of a book without too great an exertion.
Finally, after we'd worked our way through the last shelf, way back in one of the corners, Beldin hurled a book across the room and swore for about a quarter of an hour.
"This is ridiculous!" he roared.
"There has to be a copy here!"
"There might be," I agreed, "but I don't think we're going to find it.
Zedar was the one who ultimately wound up taking down Torak's ravings, and Zedar's a master at hiding things. For all we know, the Oracles are concealed inside some other book--or inside dozens of other books, a page here and a page there. There could be a complete copy someplace, but I don't think it'll be right out in the open. It might even be hidden under the floor or in the wall of some room we've already searched. I don't think we're going to have any luck, brother. We can check out the ground floor if you want, but I think we're just wasting our time. If there does happen to be a copy here and Zedar's the one who hid it, we aren't going to find it. He knows you and me well enough to have thought up a way to counteract anything we might come up with to locate it."
"I guess you're right, Belgarath," he admitted glumly.
"Let's rip the ground floor apart and then go home. This place stinks, and I need some fresh air."
And so we abandoned our search and went home. For the time being, at least, we were going to have to rely on our own prophecies without any help from Torak's.
I took that vacation I'd been promising myself, but after a month or so, I started to get bored. I went on over to Sendaria to check in with Polgara and to tell her about the little expedition to Ashaba. She'd set Gelane up in business as a cooper in the town of Seline in northern Sendaria, and the heir to Iron-grip's throne spent most of his time making barrels and kegs. When he wasn't doing that, he was "walking out" with a pretty little blonde girl, the daughter of a local blacksmith.
"Are you sure she's the right one?" I asked Pol.
She sighed.
"Yes, father," she replied in that long-suffering tone of voice.
"Just exactly how do you know, Pol? There's nothing in the Mrin or the Darine that identifies these girls--at least nothing I've ever come across."
"I'm getting instructions, father."
I wandered around in the Western Kingdoms for the next couple years, looking in on the assorted families I'd been nurturing for centuries.
The Angarak invasion of Algaria and the wholesale slaughter of the Algarian cattle herds had brought the Kingdoms of the West to the verge of an economic disaster. It was generations before there were any more cattle drives to Muros. The Tolnedrans went into deep mourning, but the always-practical Sendars came up with a partial solution. All of Sendaria turned into one vast pig ranch. Pork has certain advantages over beef. I suppose you could smoke and cure beef if you really wanted to, but the Algars didn't bother. It might have been because there weren't that many trees in Algaria, so the wood chips required to smoke meat weren't readily available. The Sendars didn't have that problem, and wagon loads of cured hams and bacon and sausages were soon trundling along every Tolnedran highway in all the Western Kingdoms.
There was a tentative, nervous kind of peace in Arendia when I came back through there on my way north after a visit to Tol Honeth where I'd presented my apologies for Polgara's bad manners to Ran Borune and General Cerran. I reached Vo Mandor in the autumn of 4877, and I spent a pleasant winter with my friend, the baron. I really liked Mandor. He had a rudimentary sense of humor, a rarity in Arendia, and he set a very nice table. I put on a few pounds during that visit.
In the spring of the following year, baron Wildantor came down from Asturia to visit. The friendship that had sprung up between the two of them during the Battle of Vo Mimbre had deepened, and they were now almost like brothers. The addition of the boisterous, red-haired Wildantor turned our little reunion into an extended party, and I was en
joying myself immensely. Then one evening when we'd stayed up late savoring our reminiscences, Beldin finally located me. It was a glorious spring night, and I'd thrown open the windows of my third-floor bedroom to let in the flower-scented spring breeze. The familiar blue-banded hawk appeared out of the night, settled on my windowsill, and shimmered back into my ugly little brother.
"I've been looking all over for you," he rasped.
"I've been right here for six months. Is there something I ought to know about?"
"I've found out where Zedar's got Torak's body hidden, is about all."
"About all? That's fairly momentous, Beldin. Where is it?"
"Southern Cthol Murgos--about fifty leagues south of Rak Cthol.
There's a cave in the side of a mountain down there, and Zedar's got Torak tucked away inside of it."
"He's that close to Ctuchik? Is he insane?"
"Of course he's insane. He always has been. Ctuchik doesn't know he's there, though."
"Ctuchik's a Grolim, Beldin. He can sense Zedar's presence."
"No, actually he can't. Zedar's using some of the tricks you taught him before he turned bad on us. That's what makes Zedar so dangerous.
He's the only one of the lot of us who's had instruction from two Gods."
"How did you find him, then?"
"Sheer luck. He came out of the cave for firewood and I just happened to be flying over."
"Are you sure Torak's inside?"
"Well, of course I am, Belgarath! I went into the cave to make sure."
"You did what?"
"Don't get excited. Zedar didn't know I was there. He was even nice enough to carry me inside."
"How did you manage that?"
He shrugged.
"I used a bug--a flea, actually." He laughed.
"That's really challenging. You wouldn't believe what that kind of compression does to your innards. Anyway, Zedar's none too clean these days, so he's pretty well flea-bitten, and he's got lice, as well. I hopped onto his head and burrowed into his hair while he was bent over picking up some sticks for his fire. He took me inside, and there was old Burnt-face all laid out on a flat rock with ice all around him. Zedar's put the mask back on him --probably because Torak's face makes him as sick as it makes the rest of humanity. I stayed where I was until Zedar went to sleep. Then I bit him a few times and hopped out of the cave."
I suddenly burst out laughing. I couldn't help it.
"What's so funny?"
"You bit him?"
"Under the circumstances, it was the best I could do. I wasn't big enough to bash out his brains. He's going to have a very itchy scalp for the next week or so, though. I'll stop by that mountain of his from time to time to make sure he stays put. Mallorea's gone all to pieces, you know."
"Oh?"
"When word got back that Torak wasn't functioning any more, independence movements started springing up all over the continent. The old emperor--the one Torak deposed--is back on the throne at Mal Zeth now, but he's not really very effective. He's got a grandson--Korzeth, I think his name is. The old emperor's grooming him for the task of reuniting Mallorea. I was going to slip into the palace and slit the little monster's throat, but the Master told me not to--very firmly. Evidently Korzeth's line's going to produce somebody we're going to need eventually.
That's about it, Belgarath, so pass all this on to the twins and to Pol.
I'm going back to Cthol Murgos. I think I'll graze on Zedar's head for a while longer." Then he blurred back into feathers and went out the window.
I made my apologies to Mandor and Wildantor the next morning and rode north, intending to go to Seline to advise Pol of these developments, but I hadn't gone five miles when I heard the sound of a galloping horse behind me. I was more than a little startled when I saw that it was General Cerran.
"Belgarath!" he shouted before he'd even caught up with me.
"Thank Nedra I caught up with you before you vanished into the Asturian Forest! Ran Borune wants you to come back to Tol Honeth!"
"Have you run out of couriers, Cerran?" I asked, a little amused to see a middle-age Tolnedran general reduced to a messenger boy.
"It's a sensitive matter, old friend. Something's going on in Tol Honeth that might involve you. The emperor doesn't even want you to come to the palace. I'm supposed to take you to a certain place and then leave you to your own devices. His Majesty thinks it might be one of those things a Tolnedran wouldn't understand, but you would."
"You've managed to arouse my curiosity, Cerran. Can you give me any details?"
"There's a member of the Honethite family who's a thoroughgoing scoundrel."
"I thought they all were."
"This one's so bad that his family's disowned him. There are some things so rancid that even the Honeths can't stomach them, but this fellow, Olgon, will do anything for a price. He does business out of a low tavern that's frequented by pickpockets and hired killers. We like to keep an eye on him, so a couple of our agents have wormed their way in among the regular patrons. We're fairly sure that the Drasnian ambassador's got some people in there, as well."
"You probably could make a safe bet on that," I agreed.
"Truly. To cut this short, a couple of weeks ago, this Honethite Olgon was approached by a Nyissan who said that his employer would pay a great deal of money to find out where you are--and much more to find out where Lady Polgara is."
"Pol's not in Tolnedra."
"We were fairly sure she wasn't, but Olgon's got people scattered all over the Western Kingdoms, and he has contacts with just about every thief and outlaw on this side of the escarpment."
"Why would a Nyissan be trying to find us?"
"His employer isn't Nyissan. One of our agents was close enough to eavesdrop when the Nyissan told Olgon his employer's name. The man who's looking for you is called Asharak the Murgo."
"I can't say that I've ever heard of him."
"It's an assumed name. Our intelligence service has quite an extensive file on this particular Murgo. He uses about a half-dozen names, but there's one report about twenty years old that identifies him as somebody named Chamdar. Does that name mean anything to you?"
I gaped at him for a moment, and then I wheeled my horse and spurred him toward the south and Tol Honeth.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
General Cerran and I very nearly killed our horses getting to Tol Honeth. I'm sure Cerran thought I'd gone crazy until I told him of some of my previous encounters with Ctuchik's ambitious underling. When we finally reached Tol Honeth, we went immediately to the Drasnian embassy. Ran Borune's Intelligence Service was good, I suppose, but it was no match for Rhodar's. The Drasnian ambassador was a stout fellow named Kheral, and he didn't seem very surprised to see us when we were escorted into his red-draped office.
"I rather thought you might be stopping by. Ancient One," he said to me.
"Let's get down to business, Kheral," I said, cutting across the pleasantries.
"How much can you tell me about this fellow who calls himself Asharak the Murgo?"
Kheral leaned back, clasping his pudgy hands on his paunch.
"He was fairly active here in Tolnedra back before the war, Belgarath--all the usual things, spies, corrupting government officials, and the like. There were dozens of Murgos doing that sort of thing back in those days. We routinely kept an eye on all of them, but Asharak wasn't doing anything so radically different from the others that he stood out."
"Didn't your home office in Boktor make the connection?"
"Evidently not. Asharak's name was in our reports, but it was mixed in with the names of all the other Murgo agents, so it didn't ring any bells.
Then Kal Torak invaded Drasnia, and the Intelligence Service had to move out of Boktor in a hurry. They set up shop in Riva, but the files were an absolute shambles. That might explain why later reports on Asharak didn't attract attention until just recently. Murgo operatives were still functioning here in Tolnedra even after the South Ca
ravan Route was closed, but when the war started getting serious, they all left the country."
"Good riddance," Cerran noted.
"No, General, not really," Kheral disagreed.
"Murgos sort of stand out in the Western Kingdoms, so they're easy to identify. Ctuchik's using Dagashi now instead, and it's much more challenging to try to identify them. We did manage to locate one a few months back, though, so I put some people to watching him. Then, about two weeks ago, this Dagashi was speaking with a fellow who looked like a Sendar, but probably wasn't, and one of my agents was close enough to them to hear them talking about some orders they'd received from Asharak the Murgo. I sent a report to our temporary headquarters in Riva, and a clerk who was a little more alert than the one who's been mishandling my correspondence made the connection. He checked the dossier we've kept on Asharak for years now, and he found some documents that were cross-referenced to the file we keep on Chamdar. The Chief of Service alerted me, and I arranged to leak information to Ran Borune's spies. I knew that you'd recently visited the palace, Belgarath, and there was a good chance that the emperor would know where you'd gone. I felt that it'd be easier--and cheaper--to let his people find you rather than sending out my own."
Cerran was looking speculatively at Kheral.
"I'm getting the distinct impression that you wear two hats, your Excellency," he observed.
"Didn't you know that, Cerran?" I asked him.
"Every Drasnian ambassador in the world's a member of the Intelligence Service."
Kheral made a slight face.
"It's a budgetary consideration, General,"
he explained.
"King Rhodar's a very thrifty fellow, and this way he only has to pay one salary rather than two. The savings do mount up after a while."
Cerran smiled.
"How typically Drasnian," he murmured.
"How does this renegade Honethite, Olgon, fit into all of this, Kheral?" I asked.
"I was just getting to that, Ancient One. The Dagashi we've been watching is currently posing as a Nyissan--shaved head, silk robe, and all of that. He's been spending a lot of time in that tavern Olgon frequents.
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