Belgarath stopped and looked her up and down quite slowly and deliberately, noting with appreciation just how revealing her gown was. A slow, insinuating smile crept across his face, and his blue eyes twinkled outrageously.
"Nice dress," he told her.
She blushed furiously.
He laughed, reached out, and patted her cheek.
"There's a good girl," he said.
"Father," Polgara said firmly.
"Coming, Pol." He chuckled and moved along the carpet toward the table. The pretty Melcene girl looked after him, her eyes wide and her hand pressed to the cheek he had touched.
"Isn't he disgusting?" Ce'Nedra muttered.
"It's just the way he is, dear," Garion disagreed. "He doesn't pretend to be anything else. He doesn't have to."
The banquet featured a number of exotic dishes that Garion could not put a name to and several which he did not even know how to eat. A deceptively innocent-looking rice dish was laced with such fiery seasonings it brought tears to his eyes and sent his hand clutching for his water goblet.
"Belar, Mara, and Nedra!" Durnik choked as he also groped about in search of water. So far as he could remember, it was the first time Garion had ever heard Durnik swear. He did it surprisingly well.
"Piquant," Sadi commented as he calmly continued to eat the dreadful concoction.
"How can you eat that?" Garion demanded in amazement.
Sadi smiled. "You forget that I'm used to being poisoned, Belgarion. Poison tends to toughen the tongue and fireproof the throat."
Zakath had watched their reactions with some amusement. "I should have warned you," he apologized. "The dish comes from Gandahar, and the natives of that region entertain themselves during the rainy season by trying to build bonfires in each other's stomachs. They're elephant trappers, for the most part, and they pride themselves on their courage." .
After the extended banquet, the brown‑robed Brador approached Garion. "If your Majesty wouldn't mind," he said, leaning forward so that Garion could hear him over the sounds of laughter and sprightly conversation from nearby tables, "there are a number of people who are most eager to meet you."
Garion nodded politely even though he inwardly winced. He had been through this sort of thing before and knew how tedious it usually became. The Chief of the Bureau of Internal Affairs led him down from the platform into the swirl of brightly clad celebrants, pausing occasionally to exchange greetings with various fellow officials and to introduce Garion. Garion braced himself for an hour or two of total boredom. The plump, bald‑headed Brador, however, proved to be an entertaining escort. Though he seemed to be engaging Garion in light conversation, he was in fact providing a succinct and often pointed briefing even as they went.
"We'll be talking with the kinglet of Pallia," he murmured as they approached a group of men in tall, conical felt caps who wore leather which had been dyed an unhealthy‑looking green color. "He's a fawning bootlicker, a liar, a coward, and absolutely not to be trusted."
"Ah, there you are, Brador," one of the felt‑capped men greeted the Melcene with a forced heartiness.
"Your Highness," Brador replied with a florid bow. "I have the honor to present his Royal Majesty, Belgarion of Riva." He turned to Garion. "Your Majesty, this is his Highness, King Warasin of Pallia."
"Your Majesty," Warasin gushed, bowing awkwardly. He was a man with a narrow, pockmarked face, close-set eyes, and a slack‑lipped mouth. His hands, Garion noticed, were not particularly clean.
"Your Highness," Garion replied with a slightly distant note.
"I was just telling the members of my court here that I'd have sooner believed that the sun would rise in the north tomorrow than that the Overlord of the West would appear at Mal Zeth."
"The world is full of surprises."
"By the beard of Torak, you're right, Belgarion ‑you don't mind if I call you Belgarion, do you, your Majesty?"
"Torak didn't have a beard," Garion corrected shortly.
"'What?"
"Torak ‑he didn't have a beard. At least he didn't when I met him."
"When you‑" Warasin's eyes suddenly widened.
"Are you telling me that all those stories about what happened at Cthol Mishrak are actually true?" he gasped,
"I'm not sure, your Highness," Garion told him. "I haven't heard all the stories yet. It's been an absolute delight meeting you, old boy," he said, clapping the stunned‑looking kinglet on the shoulder with exaggerated camaraderie. "It's a shame that we don't have more time to talk. Coming, Brador?" He nodded to the petty king of Pallia, turned, and led the Melcene away.
"You're very skilled, Belgarion," Brador murmured.
"Much more so than I would have imagined, considering‑" He hesitated.
"Considering the fact that I look like an unlettered country oaf?" Garion supplied.
"I don't know that I'd put it exactly that way."
"Why not?" Garion shrugged. "It's the truth, isn't it?
What was pig-eyes back there trying to maneuver the conversation around to? It was pretty obvious that he was leading up to something."
"It's fairly simple," Brador replied. "He recognizes current proximity to Kal Zakath. All power in Mallorea derives from the throne, and the man who has the Emperor's ear is in a unique position. Warasin is currently having a border dispute with the Prince Regent of Delchin and he probably wants you to put in a good word for him." Brador gave him an amused look. "You're in a position right now to make millions, you know."
Garion laughed. "I couldn't carry it, Brador," he said.
"I visited the royal treasury at Riva once, and I know how much a million weighs. Who's next?"
"The Chief of the Bureau of Commerce ‑an unmitigated, unprincipled ass. Like most Bureau Chiefs."
Garion smiled. "And what does he want?"
Brador tugged thoughtfully at one earlobe. "I'm not entirely certain. I've been out of the country. Vasca's a devious one, though, so I'd be careful of him."
"I'm always careful, Brador."
The Baron Vasca, Chief of the Bureau of Commerce, was wrinkled and bald. He wore the brown robe that seemed to be almost the uniform of the bureaucracy, and the gold chain of his office seemed almost too heavy for his thin neck. Though at first glance he appeared to be old and frail, his eyes were as alert and shrewd as those of a vulture. "Ah, your Majesty," he said after they had been introduced, "I'm so pleased to meet you at last."
"My pleasure, Baron Vasca," Garion said politely.
They chatted together for some time, and Garion could not detect anything in the baron's conversation that seemed in the least bit out of the ordinary.
"I note that Prince Kheldar of Drasnia is a member of your party," the baron said finally.
"We're old friends. You're acquainted with Kheldar then, Baron?"
"We've had a few dealings together ‑the customary
permits and gratuities, you understand. For the most part, though, he tends to avoid contact with the authorities."
"I've noticed that from time to time," Garion said.
"I was certain that you would have. I won't keep your Majesty. Many others here are eager to meet you, and I wouldn't want to be accused of monopolizing your time. We must talk again soon."
The baron turned to the Chief of the Bureau of Internal Affairs. "So good of you to introduce us, my dear Brador," he said.
"It's nothing, my dear Baron," Brador replied. He took Garion by the arm, and they moved away from Vasca.
"What was that all about?" Garion asked.
"I'm not altogether sure," Brador replied, "but whatever he wanted, he seems to have gotten."
"We didn't really say anything."
"I know. That's what worries me. I think I'll have my old friend Vasca watched. He's managed to arouse my curiosity."
During the next couple of hours Garion met two more gaudily dressed petty kings, a fair number of more soberly garbed bureaucrats, and a sprinkling of semi-important nobles and th
eir ladies. Many of them, of course, wanted nothing more than to be seen talking to him so that later they could say in a casual, offhand fashion, "I was talking with Belgarion the other day, and he said‑" Others made some point of suggesting that a private conversation might be desirable at some later date, A few even tried to set up specific appointments.
It was rather late when Velvet finally came to his rescue. She approached the place where Garion was trapped by the royal family of Peldane, a stodgy little kinglet in a mustard yellow turban, his simpering, scrawny wife in a pink gown that clashed horribly with her orange hair, and three spoiled royal brats who spent their time whining and hitting each other. "Your Majesty," the blond girl said with a curtsy, "Your wife asks your permission to retire."
"Asks?"
"She's feeling slightly unwell."
Garion gave her a grateful look. "I must go to her at once, then," he said quickly. He turned to the Peldane royalty. "I hope you'll all excuse me," he said to them.
"Of course, Belgarion," the kinglet replied graciously.
"And please convey our regards to your lovely wife," the queenlet added.
The royal brood continued to howl and kick each other.
"You looked a bit harried," Velvet murmured as she led Garion away.
"I could kiss you."
"Now that's an interesting suggestion."
Garion glanced sourly back over his shoulder. "They should drown those three little monsters and raise a litter of puppies instead," he muttered.
"Piglets," she corrected.
He looked at her.
"At least they could sell the bacon," she explained. "That way the effort wouldn't be a total loss."
"Is Ce'Nedra really ill?"
"Of course not. She's made as many conquests as she wants to this evening, that's all. She wants to save a few for future occasions. Now it's time for the grand withdrawal, leaving a horde of disappointed admirers, who were all panting to meet her, crushed with despair."
"That's a peculiar way to look at it."
She laughed affectionately, linking her arm in his. "Not if you're a woman, it's not."
The following morning shortly after breakfast, Garion and Belgarath were summoned to meet with Zakath and Brador in the Emperor's private study. The room was large and comfortable, lined with books and maps and with deeply upholstered chairs clustered about low tables. It was a warm day outside, and the windows stood open, allowing a blossom‑scented spring breeze to ruffle the curtains.
"Good morning, gentlemen," Zakath greeted them as they were escorted into the room. "I hope you slept well."
"Once I managed to get Ce'Nedra out of the tub." Garion laughed. "It's just a bit too convenient, I think. Would you believe that she bathed three times yesterday?"
"Mal Zeth is very hot and dusty in the summertime," Zakath said. "The baths make it bearable."
"How does the hot water get to them?" Garion asked curiously. "I haven't seen anyone carrying pails up and down the halls."
"It's piped in under the floors," the Emperor replied. "The artisan who devised the system was rewarded with a baronetcy."
"I hope you don't mind if we steal the idea. Durnik's already making sketches."
"I think it's unhealthy myself," Belgarath said, "Bathing should be done out of doors ‑in cold water. All this pampering softens people." He looked at Zakath. "I'm sure you didn't ask us here to discuss the philosophical ramifications of bathing, though."
"Not unless you really want to, Belgarath," Zakath replied. He straightened in his chair. "Now that we've all had a chance to rest from our journey, I thought that maybe it was time for us to get to work. Brador's people have made their reports to him, and he's ready to give us his assessment of the current situation in Karanda. Go ahead, Brador."
"Yes, your Majesty." The plump, bald Melcene rose from his chair and crossed to a very large map of the Mallorean continent hanging on the wall. The map was exquisitely colored with blue lakes and rivers, green prairies, darker green forests and brown, white‑topped mountains. Instead of simply being dots on the map, the cities were represented by pictures of buildings and fortifications. The Mallorean highway system, Garion noted, was very nearly as extensive as the Tolnedran network in the west.
Brador cleared his throat, fought for a moment with one of Zakath's ferocious kittens for the long pointer he wanted to use, and began. "As I reported to you in Rak Hagga," he said, "a man named Mengha came out of this immense forest to the north of Lake Karanda some six months ago." He tapped the representation of a large belt of trees stretching from the Karandese Range to the Mountains of Zamad. "We know very, very little about his background."
"That's not entirely true, Brador," Belgarath disagreed. "Cyradis told us that he's a Grolim priest ‑or he used to be. That puts us in a position to deduce quite a bit."
"I'd be interested to hear whatever you can come up with," Zakath said.
Belgarath squinted around the room, and his eyes fixed on several full crystal decanters and some polished glasses sitting on a sideboard across the room. "Do you mind?" he asked, pointing at the decanters. "I think better with a glass in my hand."
"Help yourself," Zakath replied.
The old man rose, crossed to the sideboard, and poured himself a glass of ruby‑red wine. "Garion?" he asked, holding out the decanter.
"No, thanks all the same, Grandfather."
Belgarath replaced the crystal stopper with a clink and began to pace up and down on the blue carpet. "All right," he said. "We know that demon worship persists in the back country of Karanda, even though the Grolim priests tried to stamp out the practice when the Karands were converted to the worship of Torak in the second millennium. We also know that Mengha was a priest himself. Now, if the Grolims here in Mallorea reacted in the same way that the ones in Cthol Murgos did when they heard about the death of Torak, then we know that they were thoroughly demoralized. The fact that Urvon spent several years scrambling around trying to find prophecies that would hint at the possibility of a justification for keeping the Church intact is fairly good evidence that he was faced with almost universal despair in the ranks of the Grolims." He paused to sip at his wine.
"Not bad," he said to Zakath approvingly. "Not bad at all."
"Thank you."
"Now," the old man continued, "there are many possible reactions to religious despair. Some men go mad, some men try to lose themselves in various forms of dissipation, some men refuse to admit the truth and try to keep the old forms alive. A few men, however, go in search of some new kind of religion ‑usually something the exact opposite of what they believed before. Since the Grolim Church in Karanda had concentrated for eons on eradicating demon worship, it's only logical that a few of the despairing priests would seek out demon‑masters in the hope of learning their secrets. Remember, if you can actually control a demon, it gives you a great deal of power, and the hunger for power has always been at the core of the Grolim mentality."
"It does fit together, Ancient One," Brador admitted.
"I thought so myself. All right, Torak is dead, and Mengha suddenly finds that his theological ground has been cut out from under him. He probably goes through a period of doing all the things that he wasn't allowed to do as a priest ‑drinking, wenching, that sort of thing. But if you do things to excess, eventually they become empty and unsatisfying. Even debauchery can get boring after a while."
"Aunt Pol will be amazed to hear that you said that," Garion said.
"You just keep it to yourself," Belgarath told him. "Our arguments about my bad habits are the cornerstone of our relationship." He took another sip of his wine. "This is really excellent," he said, holding up the glass to admire the color of the wine in the sunlight. "Now then, here we have Mengha waking up some morning with a screaming headache, a mouth that tastes like a chicken coop, and a fire in his stomach that no amount of water will put out. He has no real reason to go on living. He might even take out his sacrificial gutting knife and s
et the point against his chest."
"Isn't your speculation going a bit far afield?" Zakath asked.
Belgarath laughed. "I used to be a professional storyteller," he apologized. "I can't stand to let a good story slip by without a few artistic touches. All right, maybe he did or maybe he didn't think about killing himself. The point is that he had reached the absolute rock bottom. That's when the idea of demons came to him. Raising demons is almost as dangerous as being the first up the scaling ladder during an assault on a fortified city, but Mengha has nothing to lose. So, he journeys into the forest up there, finds a Karandese magician, and somehow persuades him to teach him the art ‑if that's what you want to call it. It takes him about a dozen years to learn all the secrets."
"How did you arrive at that number?" Brador asked.
Belgarath shrugged. "It's been fourteen years since the death of Torak ‑or thereabouts. No normal man can seriously mistreat himself for more than a couple of years before he starts to fall apart, so it was probably about twelve years ago that Mengha went in search of a magician to give him instruction. Then, once he's learned all the secrets, he kills his teacher, and‑"
"Wait a minute," Zakath objected. "Why would he do that?"
"His teacher knew too much about him, and he could also raise demons to send after our defrocked Grolim.
Then there's the fact that the arrangement between teacher and pupil in these affairs involves lifetime servitude enforced with a curse. Mengha could not leave his master until the old man was dead."
"How do you know so much about this, Belgarath?" Zakath asked.
"I went through it all among the Morindim a few thousand years ago. I wasn't doing anything very important and I was curious about magic."
"Did you kill your master?"
"No ‑well, not exactly. When I left him, he sent his familiar demon after me. I took control of it and sent it back to him."
"And it killed him?"
"I assume so. They usually do. Anyway, getting back to Mengha. He arrives at the gates of Calida about six months ago and raises a whole army of demons. Nobody in his right mind raises more than one at a time because they're too difficult to control." He frowned, pacing up and down staring at the floor. "The only thing I can think of is that somehow he's managed to raise a Demon Lord and get it under control."
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