"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.
"It would delay us," Wolf said. "Asharak-whoever he is - knows that Polgara would stop to look for you. So would the rest of us, most likely. That would give Zedar time to get away."
"Just who is Asharak?" Hettar asked, his eyes narrowing.
"A Grolim, I expect," Wolf said. "His operations are a little too widespread for him to be an ordinary Murgo."
"How can one tell the difference?" Durnik asked.
"You can't," Wolf answered. "They look very much the same. They're two separate tribes, but they're much more closely related to each other than they are to other Angaraks. Anyone can tell the difference between a Nadrak and a Thull or a Thull and a Mallorean, but Murgos and Grolims are so much alike that you can't tell them apart."
"I've never had any problem," Aunt Pol said. "Their minds are quite different."
"That will make it much easier," Barak commented dryly. "We'll just chop open the head of the next Murgo we meet, and you can point out the differences to us."
"You've been spending too much time with Silk lately," Aunt Pol said acidly. "You're starting to talk like him."
Barak looked over at Silk and winked.
"Let's finish up here and see if we can't get out of town quietly," Wolf said. "Is there a back alley out of this place?" he asked Silk. "Naturally," Silk said, still eating.
"Are you familiar with it?"
"Please!" Silk looked a little offended. "Of course I'm familiar with it. "Let it pass," Wolf said.
The alleyway Silk led them through was narrow, deserted, and smelled quite bad, but it brought them to the town's south gate, and they were soon on the highway again.
"A little distance wouldn't hurt at this point," Wolf said. He thumped his heels to his horse's flanks and started off at a gallop. They rode until well after dark. The moon, looking swollen and unhealthy, rose slowly above the horizon and filled the night with a pale light that seemed to leech away all trace of color. Wolf finally pulled to a stop. "There's really no point in riding all night," he said. "Let's move off the road and get a few hours' sleep. We'll start out again early. I'd like to stay ahead of Brill this time if we can."
"Over there?" Durnik suggested, pointing at a small copse of trees looming black in the moonlight not far from the road.
"It will do," Wolf decided. "I don't think we'll need a fire." They led the horses in among the trees and pulled their blankets out of the packs. The moonlight filtered in among the trees and dappled the leaf strewn ground. Garion found a fairly level place with his feet, rolled up in his blankets and, after squirming around a bit, he fell asleep.
He awoke suddenly, his eyes dazzled by the light of a half dozen torches. A heavy foot was pushed down on his chest, and the point of a sword was set firmly, uncomfortably against his throat.
"Nobody move!" a harsh voice ordered. "We'll kill anybody who moves."
Garion stiffened in panic, and the sword point at his throat dug in sharply. He rolled his head fro
m side to side and saw that all of his friends were being held down in the same way he was. Durnik, who had been standing guard, was held by two rough-looking soldiers, and a piece of rag was stuffed in his mouth.
"What does this mean?" Silk demanded of the soldiers.
"You'll find out," the one in charge rasped. "Get their weapons." As he gestured, Garion saw that a finger was missing from his right hand. "There's a mistake here," Silk said. "I'm Radek of Boktor, a merchant, and my friends and I haven't done anything wrong."
"Get on your feet," the three-fingered soldier ordered, ignoring the little man's objections. "If any one of you tries to get away, we'll kill all the rest."
Silk rose and crammed on his cap. "You're going to regret this, Captain," he said. "I've got powerful friends here in Tolnedra."
The soldier shrugged. "That doesn't mean anything to me," he said. "I take my orders from Count Dravor. He told me to bring you in."
"All right," Silk said. "Let's go see this Count Dravor, then. We'll get this cleared up right now, and there's no need for waving your swords around. We'll come along quietly. None of us is going to do anything to get you excited."
The three-fingered soldier's face darkened in the torchlight. "I don't like your tone, merchant."
"You're not being paid to like my tone, friend," Silk said. "You're being paid to escort us to Count Dravor. Now suppose we get moving. The quicker we get there, the quicker I can give him a full report about your behavior."
"Get their horses," the soldier growled.
Garion had edged over to Aunt Pol. "Can't you do anything?" he asked her quietly.
"No talking!" the soldier who had captured him barked.
Garion stood helplessly, staring at the sword leveled at his chest.
Chapter Fourteen
THE HOUSE OF Count Dravor was a large white building set in the center of a broad lawn with clipped hedges and formal gardens on either side. The moon, fully overhead now, illuminated every detail as they rode slowly up a white-graveled, curving road that led to the house.
The soldiers ordered them to dismount in the courtyard between the house and the garden on the west side of the house, and they were hustled inside and down a long hallway to a heavy, polished door.
Count Dravor was a thin, vague-looking man with deep pouches under his eyes, and he sprawled in a chair in the center of a richly furnished room. He looked up with a pleasant, almost dreamy smile on his face as they entered. His mantle was a pale rose color with silver trim at the hem and around the sleeves to indicate his rank. It was badly wrinkled and none too clean. "And who are these guests?" he asked, his voice slurred and barely audible.
"The prisoners, my Lord," the three-fingered soldier explained. "The ones you ordered arrested."
"Did I order someone arrested?" the count asked, his voice still slurred. "What a remarkable thing for me to do. I hope I haven't inconvenienced you, my friends."
"We were a bit surprised, that's all," Silk said carefully.
"I wonder why I did that." The count pondered. "I must have had a reason - I never do anything without a reason. What have you done wrong?"
"We haven't done anything wrong, my Lord," Silk assured him. "Then why would I have you arrested? There must be some sort of mistake."
"That's what we thought, my Lord," Silk said.
"Well, I'm glad that's all cleared up," the count said happily. "May I offer you some dinner, perhaps?"
"We've already eaten, my Lord."
"Oh." The count's face fell with disappointment. "I have so few visitors."
"Perhaps your steward Y'diss may remember the reason these people were detained, my Lord," the three-fingered soldier suggested.
"Of course," the count said. "Why didn't I think of that? Y'diss remembers everything. Please send for him at once."
"Yes, my Lord." The soldier bowed and jerked his head curtly at one of his men.
Count Dravor dreamily began playing with one of the folds of his mantle, humming tunelessly as they waited.
After a few moments a door at the end of the room opened, and a man in an iridescent and intricately embroidered robe entered. His face was grossly sensual, and his head was shaved. "You sent for me, my Lord?" His rasping voice was almost a hiss.
"Ah, Y'diss," Count Dravor said happily, "how good of you to join us."
"It's my pleasure to serve you, my Lord," the steward said with a sinuous bow.
"I was wondering why I asked these friends to stop by," the count said. "I seem to have forgotten. Do you by any chance recall?"
"It's just a small matter, my Lord," Y'diss answered. "I can easily handle it for you. You need your rest. You mustn't overtire yourself, you know."
The count passed a hand across his face. "Now that you mention it, I do feel a bit fatigued, Y'diss. Perhaps you could entertain our guests while I rest a bit."
"Of course, my Lord," Y'diss said with another bow.
The count shifted around in his chair and almost immediately fell asleep.
"The count is in delicate health," Y'diss said with an oily smile. "He seldom leaves that chair these days. Let's move away a bit so that we don't disturb him."
"I'm only a Drasnian merchant, your Eminence," Silk said, "and these are my servants - except for my sister there. We're baffled by all of this."
Y'diss laughed. "Why do you persist in this absurd fiction, Prince Kheldar? I know who you are. I know you all, and I know your mission."
"What's your interest in us, Nyissan?" Mister Wolf asked bluntly. "I serve my mistress, Eternal Salmissra," Y'diss said.
"Has the Snake Woman become the pawn of the Grolims, then?" Aunt Pol asked, "or does she bow to the will of Zedar?"
"My queen bows to no man, Polgara," Y'diss denied scornfully. "Really?" She raised one eyebrow. "It's curious to find her servant dancing to a Grolim tune."
"I have no dealings with the Grolims," Y'diss said. "They're scouring all Tolnedra for you, but I'm the one who found you."
"Finding isn't keeping, Y'diss," Mister Wolf stated quietly. "Suppose you tell us what this is all about."
"I'll tell you only what I feel like telling you, Belgarath."
"I think that's about enough, father," Aunt Pol said. "We really don't have time for Nyissan riddle games, do we?"
"Don't do it, Polgara," Y'diss warned. "I know all about your power. My soldiers will kill your friends if you so much as raise your hand." Garion felt himself roughly grabbed from behind, and a sword blade was pressed firmly against his throat.
Aunt Pol's eyes blazed suddenly. "You're walking on dangerous ground!"
"I don't think we need to exchange threats," Mister Wolf said. "I gather, then, that you don't intend to turn us over to the Grolims?" "I'm not interested in the Grolims," Y'diss said. "My queen has instructed me to deliver you to her in Sthiss Tor."
"What's Salmissra's interest in this matter?" Wolf asked. "It doesn't concern her."
"I'll let her explain that to you when you get to Sthiss Tor. In the meantime, there are a few things I'll require you to tell me."
"I think thou wilt have scant success in that," Mandorallen said stiffIy. "It is not our practice to discuss private matters with unwholesome strangers."
"And I think you're wrong, my dear Baron," Y'diss replied with a cold smile. "The cellars of this house are deep, and what happens there can be most unpleasant. I have servants highly skilled in applying certain exquisitely persuasive torments."
"I do not fear thy torments, Nyissan," Mandorallen said contemptuously.
"No. I don't imagine you do. Fear requires imagination, and you Arends aren't bright enough to be imaginative. The torments, however, will wear down your will - and provide entertainment for my servants. Good torturers are hard to find, and they grow sullen if they aren't allowed to practice - I'm sure you understand. Later, after you've all had the chance to visit with them a time or two, we'll try something else. Nyissa abounds with roots and leaves and curious little berries with strang
e properties. Oddly enough, most men prefer the rack or the wheel to my little concoctions." Y'diss laughed then, a brutal sound with no mirth in it. "We'll discuss all this further after I have the count settled in for the night. For right now, the guards will take you downstairs to the places I've prepared for you all."
Count Dravor roused himself and looked around dreamily. "Are our friends departing so soon?" he asked.
"Yes, my Lord," Y'diss told him.
"Well then," the count said with a vague smile, "farewell, dear people. I hope you'll return someday so that we can continue our delightful conversation."
The cell to which Garion was taken was dank and clammy, and it smelled of sewage and rotting food. Worst of all was the darkness. He huddled beside the iron door with the blackness pressing in on him palpably. From one corner of the cell came little scratchings and skittering sounds. He thought of rats and tried to stay as near to the door as possible. Water trickled somewhere, and his throat began to burn with thirst.
It was dark, but it was not silent. Chains clinked in a nearby cell, and someone was moaning. Further off, there was insane laughter, a meaningless cackle repeated over and over again without pause, endlessly rattling in the dark. Someone screamed, a piercing, shocking sound, and then again. Garion cringed back against the slimy stones of the wall, his imagination immediately manufacturing tortures to account for the agony in those screams.
Time in such a place was nonexistent, and so there was no way to know how long he had huddled in his cell, alone and afraid, before he began to hear a faint metallic scraping and clinking that seemed to come from the door itself. He scrambled away, stumbling across the uneven floor of his cell to the far wall. "Go away!" he cried.
"Keep your voice down!" Silk whispered from the far side of the door. "Is that you, Silk?" Garion almost sobbed with relief.
"Who were you expecting?" "How did you get loose?"
"Don't talk so much," Silk said from between clenched teeth. "Accursed rust!" he swore. Then he grunted, and there was a grating click from the door. "There!" The cell door creaked open, and the dim light from torches somewhere filtered in. "Come along," Silk whispered. "We have to hurry."
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