Garion almost ran from the cell. Aunt Pol was waiting a few steps down the gloomy stone corridor. Without a word, Garion went to her. She looked at him gravely for a moment and then put her arms about him. They did not speak.
Silk was working on another door, his face gleaming with perspiration. The lock clicked, and the door creaked open. Hettar stepped out. "What took you so long?" he asked Silk.
"Rust!" Silk snapped in a low voice. "I'd like to flog all the jailers in this place for letting the locks get into this condition."
"Do you suppose we could hurry a bit?" Barak suggested over his shoulder from where he stood guard.
"Do you want to do this?" Silk demanded.
"Just move along as quickly as you can," Aunt Pol said. "We don't have the time for bickerin just now." She removed her blue cloak over one arm.
Silk grunted sourly and moved on to the next door.
"Is all this oratory actually necessary?" Mister Wolf, the last to be released, asked crisply as he stepped out of his cell. "You've all been babbling like a flock of geese out here."
"Prince Kheldar felt need to make observations about the condition of the locks," Mandorallen said lightly.
Silk scowled at him and led the way toward the end of the corridor where the torches fumed greasy onto the blackened ceiling.
"Have a care," Mandorallen whispered urgently. "There's a guard."
A bearded man in a dirty leather jerkin sat on the floor with his back against the wall of the corridor, snoring.
"Can we get past without waking him up?" Durnik breathed.
"He isn't going to wake up for several hours," Barak said grimly. The large purple swelling on the side of the guard's face immediately explained.
"Dost think there might be others?" Mandorallen asked, flexing his hands.
"There were a few," Barak said. "They're sleeping too." "Let's get out of here, then," Wolf suggested.
"We'll take Y'diss with us, won't we?" Aunt Pol asked. "What for?"
"I'd like to talk with him," she said. "At great length."
"It would be a waste of time," Wolf said. "Salmissra's involved herself in this affair. That's all we really need to know. Her motives don't really interest me all that much. Let's just get out of here as quietly as we can."
They crept past the snoring guard, turned a corner and moved softly down another corridor.
"Did he die?" a voice, shockingly loud, asked from behind a barred door that emitted a smoky red light.
"No," another voice said, "only fainted. You pulled too hard on the lever. You have to keep the pressure steady. Otherwise they faint, and you have to start over."
"This is a lot harder than I thought," the first voice complained. "You're doing fine," the second voice said. "The rack's always tricky. Just remember to keep a steady pressure and not to jerk the lever. They usually die if you pull their arms out of the sockets."
Aunt Pol's face went rigid, and her eyes blazed briefly. She made a small gesture and whispered something. A brief, hushed sound murmured in Garion's mind.
"You know," the first voice said rather faintly, "suddenly I don't feel so good."
"Now that you mention it, I don't either," the second voice agreed. "Did that meat we had for supper taste all right to you?"
"It seemed all right." There was a long pause. "I really don't feel good at all."
They tiptoed past the barred door, and Garion carefully avoided looking in. At the end of the corridor was a stout oak door bound with iron. Silk ran his fingers around the handle. "It's locked from the outside," he said.
"Someone's coming," Hettar warned.
There was the tramp of heavy feet on the stone stairs beyond the door, the murmur of voices and a harsh laugh.
Wolf turned quickly to the door of a nearby cell. He touched his fingers to the rusty iron lock, and it clicked smoothly. "In here," he whispered. They all crowded into the cell, and Wolf pulled the door shut behind them.
"When we've got some leisure, I'll want to talk to you about that," Silk said.
"You were having such a good time with the locks that I didn't want to interfere." Wolf smiled blandly. "Now listen. We're going to have to deal with these men before they find out that our cells are empty and rouse the whole house."
"We can do that," Barak said confidently. They waited.
"They're opening the door," Durnik whispered. "How many are there?" Mandorallen asked.
"I can't tell."
"Eight," Aunt Pol said firmly.
"All right," Barak decided. "We'll let them pass and then jump on them from behind. A scream or two won't matter much in a place like this, but let's put them down quickly."
They waited tensely in the darkness of the cell.
"Y'diss says it doesn't matter if some of them die under the questioning," one of the men outside said. "The only ones wee have to keep alive are the old man, the woman, and the boy."
"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 crowded 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 fan, 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.
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