Rivan Codex Series

by Eddings, David

  Late on a chill, snowy afternoon, they rode down a gradual hill toward the city. Some distance from the gate, Aunt Pol stopped her horse. "Since we're no longer posing as vagabonds," she announced, "I see no further need for selecting the most disreputable inns, do you?"

  "I hadn't really thought about it," Mister Wolf said.

  "Well, I have," she said. "I've had more than enough of wayside hostels and seedy village inns. I need a bath, a clean bed and some decent food. If you don't mind, I'll choose our lodging this time."

  "Of course, Pol," Wolf said mildly. "Whatever you say."

  "Very well, then," she said and rode on toward the city gate with the rest of them trailing behind her.

  "What is your business in Camaar?" one of the fur-mantled guards at the broad gate asked rather rudely.

  Aunt Pol threw back her hood and fixed the man with a steely gaze. "I am the Duchess of Erat," she announced in ringing tones. "These are my retainers, and my business in Camaar is my own affair."

  The guard blinked and then bowed respectfully.

  "Forgive me, your Grace," he said. "I didn't intend to give offense."

  "Indeed?" Aunt Pol said, her tone still cold and her gaze still dangerous.

  "I did not recognize your Grace," the poor man floundered, squirming under that imperious stare. "May I offer any assistance?"

  "I hardly think so," Aunt Pol said, looking him up and down. "Which is the finest inn in Camaar?"

  "That would be the Lion, my Lady."

  "And-?" she said impatiently.

  "And what, my Lady?" the man said, confused by her question.

  "Where is it?" she demanded. "Don't stand there gaping like a dolt. Speak up."

  "It lies beyond the customs houses," the guard replied, flushing at her words. "Follow this street until you reach Customs Square. Anyone there can direct you to the Lion."

  Aunt Pol pulled her hood back up.

  "Give the fellow something," she said over her shoulder and rode on into the city without a backward glance.

  "My thanks," the guard said as Wolf leaned down to hand him a small coin. "I must admit that I haven't heard of the Duchess of Erat before."

  "You're a fortunate man," Wolf said.

  "She's a great beauty," the man said admiringly.

  "And has a temper to match," Wolf told him.

  "I noticed that," the guard said.

  "We noticed you noticing," Silk told him slyly.

  They nudged their horses and caught up with Aunt Pol.

  "The Duchess of Erat?" Silk asked mildly.

  "The fellow's manner irritated me," Aunt Pol said loftily, "and I'm tired of putting on a poor face in front of strangers."

  At Customs Square Silk accosted a busy-looking merchant trudging across the snow-covered paving. "You-fellow," he said in the most insulting way possible, pulling his horse directly in front of the startled merchant. "My mistress, the Duchess of Erat, requires directions to an inn called the Lion. Be so good as to provide them."

  The merchant blinked, his face flushing at the rat-faced man's tone.

  "Up that street," he said shortly, pointing. "Some goodly way. It will be on your left. There's a sign of a Lion at the front."

  Silk sniffed ungraciously, tossed a few coins into the snow at the man's feet and whirled his horse in a grand manner. The merchant, Garion noted, looked outraged, but he did grope in the snow for the coins Silk had thrown.

  "I doubt that any of these people will quickly forget our passage," Wolf said sourly when they were some ways up the street.

  "They'll remember the passage of an arrogant noblewoman," Silk said. "This is as good a disguise as any we've tried."

  When they arnved at the inn, Aunt Pol commanded not just the usual sleeping chambers but an entire apartment. "My chamberlain there will pay you," she said to the innkeeper, indicating Mister Wolf. "Our baggage horses are some days behind with the rest of my servants, so I'll require the services of a dressmaker and a maid. See to it." And she turned and swept imperially up the long staircase that led to her apartment, following the servant who scurried ahead to show her the way.

  "The duchess has a commanding presence, doesn't she?" the innkeeper ventured as Wolf began counting out coins.

  "She has indeed," Wolf agreed. "I've discovered the wisdom of not countering her wishes."

  "I'll be guided by you then," the innkeeper assured him. "My youngest daughter is a serviceable girl. I'll dispatch her to serve as her Grace's maid."

  "Many thanks, friend," Silk told him. "Our Lady becomes most irntable when those things she desires are delayed, and we're the ones who suffer most from her displeasure."

  They trooped up the stairs to the apartments Aunt Pol had taken and stepped into the main sitting room, a splendid chamber far richer than any Garion had seen before. The walls were covered by tapestries with intricate pictures woven into the fabric. A wealth of candles - real wax instead of smoky tallow - gleamed in sconces on the walls and in a massive candelabra on the polished table. A good warm fire danced merrily on the hearth, and a large carpet of curious design lay on the floor.

  Aunt Pol was standing before the fire, warming her hands. "Isn't this better than some shabby, wharfside inn reeking of fish and unwashed sailors?" she asked.

  "If the Duchess of Erat will forgive my saying so," Wolf said somewhat tartly, "this is hardly the way to escape notice, and the cost of these lodgings would feed a legion for a week."

  "Don't grow parsimonious in your dotage, Old Wolf," she replied. "No one takes a sPolled noblewoman seriously, and your wagons weren't able to keep that disgusting Brill from finding us. This guise is at least comfortable, and it permits us to move more rapidly."

  Wolf grunted. "I only hope we won't regret all this," he said.

  "Stop grumbling, old man," she told him.

  "Have it your way, Pol." He sighed.

  "I intend to," she said.

  "How are we to behave, Mistress Po1?" Durnik asked hesitantly. Her sudden regal manner had obviously confused him. "I'm not familiar with the ways of the gentry."

  "It's quite simple, Durnik," she said. She eyed him up and down, noting his plain, dependable face and his solid competence. "How would you like to be chief groom to the Duchess of Erat? And master of her stables?"

  Durnik laughed uncomfortably. "Noble titles for work I've done all my life," he said. "I could manage the work easily enough, but the titles might grow a bit heavy."

  "You'll do splendidly, friend Durnik," Silk assured him. "That honest face of yours makes people believe anything you choose to tell them. If I had a face like yours, I could steal half the world." He turned to Aunt Pol. "And what role am I to play, my Lady?" he asked.

  "You'll be my reeve," she said. "The thievery usually associated with the position should suit you."

  Silk bowed ironically.

  "And I?" Barak said, grinning openly.

  "My man-at-arms," she said. "I doubt that any would believe you to be a dancing master. Just stand around looking dangerous."

  "What of me, Aunt Pol?" Garion asked. "What do I do?"

  "You can be my page."

  "What does a page do?"

  "You fetch things for me."

  "I've always done that. Is that what it's called?"

  "Don't be impertinent. You also answer doors and announce visitors; and when I'm melancholy, you may sing to me."

  "Sing?" he said incredulously. "Me?"

  "It's customary."

  "You wouldn't make me do that, would you, Aunt Pol?"

  "Your Grace," she corrected.

  "You won't be very gracious if you have to listen to me sing," he warned. "My voice isn't very good."

  "You'll do just fine, dear," she said.

  "And I've already been appointed to your Grace's chamberlain," Wolf said.

  "My chief steward," she told him. "Manager of my estates and keeper of my purse."

  "Somehow I knew that would be part of it."

  There was a t
imid rap at the door.

  "See who that is, Garion," Aunt Pol said.

  When he opened the door, Garion found a young girl with light brown hair in a sober dress and starched apron and cap standing outside. She had very large brown eyes that looked at him apprehensively.

  "Yes?" he asked.

  "I've been sent to wait upon the duchess," she said in a low voice.

  "Your maid has arrived, your Grace," Garion announced.

  "Splendid," Aunt Pol said. "Come in, child."

  The girl entered the room.

  "What a pretty thing you are," Aunt Pol said.

  "Thank you, my Lady," the girl answered with a brief curtsy and a rosy blush.

  "And what is your name?"

  "I am called Donia, my Lady."

  "A lovely name," Aunt Pol said. "Now to important matters. Is there a bath on the premises?"

  It was still snowing the next morning. The roofs of nearby houses were piled high with white, and the narrow streets were deep with it.

  "I think we're close to the end of our search," Mister Wolf said as he stared intently out through the rippled glass of the window in the room with the tapestries.

  "It's unlikely that the one we're after would stay in Camaar for long," Silk said.

  "Very unlikely," Wolf agreed, "but once we've found his trail, we'll be able to move more rapidly. Let's go into the city and see if I'm right."

  After Mister Wolf and Silk had left, Garion sat for a while talking with Donia, who seemed to be about his own age. Although she was not quite as pretty as Zubrette, Garion found her soft voice and huge brown eyes extremely attractive. Things were going along well between them until Aunt Pol's dressmaker arrived and Donia's presence was required in the chamber where the Duchess of Erat was being fitted for her new gowns.

  Since Durnik, obviously ill at ease in the luxurious surroundings of their chambers, had adjourned to the stables after breakfast, Garion was left in the company of the giant Barak, who worked patiently with a small stone, polishing a nick out of the edge of his sword - a memento of the skirmish in Muros. Garion had never been wholly comfortable with the huge, red-bearded man. Barak spoke rarely, and there seemed to be a kind of hulking menace about him. So it was that Garion spent the morning examining the tapestries on the walls of the sitting room. The tapestries depicted knights in full armor and castles on hilltops and strangely angular-looking maidens moping about in gardens.

  "Arendish," Barak said, directly behind him. Garion jumped. The huge man had moved up so quietly that Garion had not heard him.

  "How can you tell?" Garion asked politely.

  "The Arends have a fondness for tapestry," Barak rumbled, "and the weaving of pictures occupies their women while the men are off denting each other's armor."

  "Do they really wear all that?" Garion asked, pointing at a heavily armored knight pictured on the tapestry.

  "Oh yes." Barak laughed. "That and more. Even their horses wear armor. It's a silly way to make war."

  Garion scuffed his shoe on the carpet.

  "Is this Arendish too?" he asked.

  Barak shook his head.

  "Mallorean," he said.

  "How did it get here all the way from MaIlorea?" Garion asked. "I've heard that Mallorea's all the way on the other end of the world."

  "It's a goodly way off," Barak agreed, "but a merchant would go twice as far to make a profit. Such goods as this commonly move along the North Caravan Route out of Gar og Nadrak to Boktor. Mallorean carpets are prized by the wealthy. I don't much care for them myself, since I'm not fond of anything that has to do with the Angaraks."

  "How many kinds of Angaraks are there?" Garion asked. "I know there are Murgos and Thulls, and I've heard stories about the Battle of Vo Mimbre and all, but I don't know much about them really."

  "There are five tribes of them," Barak said, sitting back down and resuming his polishing, "Murgos and Thulls, Nadraks and Malloreans, and of course the Grolims. They live in the four kingdoms of the east Mallorea, Gar og Nadrak, Mishrak ac Thull and Cthol Murgos."

  "Where do the Grolims live?"

  "They have no special place," Barak replied grimly. "The Grolims are the priests of Torak One-eye and are everywhere in the lands of the Angaraks. They're the ones who perform the sacrifices to Torak. Grolim knives have spilled more Angarak blood than a dozen Vo Mimbres."

  Garion shuddered.

  "Why should Torak take such pleasure in the slaughter of his own people?" he asked.

  "Who can say?" Barak shrugged. "He's a twisted and evil God. Some believe that he was made mad when he used the Orb of Aldur to crack the world and the Orb repaid him by burning out his eye and consuming his hand."

  "How could the world be cracked?" Garion asked. "I've never understood that part of the story."

  "The power of the Orb of Aldur is such that it can accomplish anything," Barak told him. "When Torak raised it, the earth was split apart by its power, and the seas came in to drown the land. The story's very old, but I think that it's probably true."

  "Where is the Orb of Aldur now?" Garion asked suddenly.

  Barak looked at him, his eyes icy blue and his face thoughtful, but he didn't say anything.

  "Do you know what I think?" Garion said on a sudden impulse. "I think that it's the Orb of Aldur that's been stolen. I think it's the Orb that Mister Wolf is trying to find."

  "And I think it would be better if you didn't think so much about such things," Barak warned.

  "But I want to know," Garion protested, his curiosity driving him even in the face of Barak's words and the warning voice in his mind. "Everyone treats me like an ignorant boy. All I do is tag along with no idea of what we're doing. Who is Mister Wolf, anyway? Why did the Algars behave the way they did when they saw him? How can he follow something that he can't see? Please tell me, Barak."

  "Not I." Barak laughed. "Your Aunt would pull out my beard whisker by whisker if I made that mistake."

  "You're not afraid of her, are you?"

  "Any man with good sense is afraid of her," Barak said, rising and sliding his sword into its sheath.

  "Aunt Pol?" Garion asked incredulously.

  "Aren't you afraid of her?" Barak asked pointedly.

  "No," Garion said, and then realized that was not precisely true. "Well-not really afraid. It's more-" He left it hanging, not knowing how to explain it.

  "Exactly," Barak said. "And I'm no more foolhardy than you, my boy. You're too full of questions I'd be far wiser not to answer. If you want to know about these things, you'll have to ask your Aunt."

  "She won't tell me," Garion said glumly. "She won't tell me anything. She won't even tell me about my parents-not really."

  Barak frowned.

  "That's strange," he said.

  "I don't think they were Sendars," Garion said. "Their names weren't Sendarian, and Silk says that I'm not a Sendar - at least I don't look like one."

  Barak looked at him closely. "No," he said finally. "Now that you mention it, you don't. You look more like a Rivan than anything else, but not quite that either."

  "Is Aunt Pol a Rivan?"

  Barak's eyes narrowed slightly. "I think we're getting to some more of those questions I hadn't better answer," he said.

  "I'm going to find out someday," Garion said.

  "But not today," Barak said. "Come along. I need some exercise. Let's go out into the innyard and I'll teach you how to use a sword."

  "Me?" Garion said, all his curiosity suddenly melting away in the excitement of that thought.

  "You're at an age where you should begin to learn," Barak said. "The occasion may someday arise when it will be a useful thing for you to know."

  Late that afternoon when Garion's arm had begun to ache from the effort of swinging Barak's heavy sword and the whole idea of learning the skills of a warrior had become a great deal less exciting, Mister Wolf and Silk returned. Their clothes were wet from the snow through which they had trudged all day, but Wolf's eyes were brigh
t, and his face had a curiously exultant expression as he led them all back up the stairs to the sitting room.

  "Ask your Aunt to join us," he told Garion as he removed his sodden mantle and stepped to the fire to warm himself.

  Garion sensed quickly that this was not the time for questions. He hurried to the polished door where Aunt Pol had been closeted with her dressmaker all day and rapped.

  "What is it?" her voice came from inside.

  "Mister-uh-that is, your chamberlain has returned, my Lady," Garion said, remembering at the last moment that she was not alone. "He requests a word with you."

  "Oh, very well," she said. After a minute she came out, firmly closing the door behind her.

  Garion gasped. The rich, blue velvet gown she wore made her so magnificent that she quite took his breath away. He stared at her in helpless admiration.

  "Where is he?" she asked. "Don't stand and gape, Garion. It's not polite."

  "You're beautiful, Aunt Pol," he blurted.

  "Yes, dear," she said, patting his cheek, "I know. Now where's the Old Wolf?"

  "In the room with the tapestries," Garion said, still unable to take his eyes from her.

  "Come along, then," she said and swept down the short hall to the sitting room. They entered to find the others all standing by the fireplace.

  "Well?" she asked.

  Wolf looked up at her, his eyes still bright. "An excellent choice, Pol," he said admiringly. "Blue has always been your best color."

  "Do you like it?" she asked, holding out her arms and turning almost girlishly so that they all might see how fine she looked. "I hope it pleases you, old man, because it's costing you a great deal of money."

  Wolf laughed. "I was almost certain it would," he said.

  The effect of Aunt Pol's gown on Durnik was painfully obvious. The poor man's eyes literally bulged, and his face turned alternately very pale and then very red, then finally settled into an expression of such hopelessness that Garion was touched to the quick by it.