Rivan Codex Series

by Eddings, David

  The light had that peculiar steely tint mat comes from a colorless sky before the sun rises. It cast no shadows and what lay beneath the broad-spread oaks was not so much darkness as it was a fainter light. Garion moved quickly, his feet avoiding almost on their own the windrows of years-old dead leaves and the fallen twigs and branches that littered the floor of this ancient forest.

  Zakath stood atop the knoll, holding his sword. “Where are they?” Garion's voice was not so much a whisper as a breath.

  "They were coming up from the south," Zakath whispered back.

  "How many?"

  "It's hard to say."

  "Are they trying to sneak up on us?"

  "It didn't really look that way. The ones we saw could have hidden back there among the trees, but they just came walking through the forest.”

  Garion peered out into the growing light. And then he saw them. They were dressed all in white—robes or long smocks— and they made no attempts at concealment. Their movements were deliberate and seemed to have a placid, unhurried calm about them. They came in single file, each following the one in front at a distance of about ten yards. There was something hauntingly familiar about the way they moved through the forest.

  "All they need are the torches," Silk said from directly behind Garion. The little man made no attempt to keep his voice down.

  "Be still!" Zakath hissed.

  "Why? They know we're here." Silk laughed a caustic little laugh. "Remember that time on the Isle of Verkat?" he said to Garion. "You and I spent a half hour or so crawling through me wet grass following Yard and his people, and I'm absolutely sure now that they knew we were there all the time. We could have just walked along behind them and saved ourselves all the discomfort."

  "What are you talking about, Kheldar?" Zakath demanded in a hoarse whisper.

  "This is another of Belgarath's repetitions." Silk shrugged. “Garion and I have been through it before.” He sighed ruefully. "Life is going to get terribly boring if nothing new ever happens." Then he raised his voice to a shout. "We're over here," he called to the white-robed figures out in the forest.

  "Are you mad?" Zakatii exclaimed.

  "Probably not, but then crazy people never really know, do they? Those people are Dais, and I seriously doubt that any Dal has ever hurt anybody since the beginning of time."

  The leader of the strange column halted at the foot of the knoll and pushed back the cowl of his white robe. "We have been awaiting you," he announced. "The Holy Seeress has sent us to see you safely to Kell."

  CHAPTER FOUR

  King Kheva of Drasnia was irritable that morning He had overheard a conversation the previous evening between his mother and an emmisary of King Anheg of Cherek, and his irritation grew out of a sort of moral dilemma. To reveal to his mother that he had been eavesdropping would of course be quite out of the question, and so he could not discuss with her what he had heard until she broached the subject herself. It seemed quite unlikely that she would do so, and so Kheva was at an impasse.

  It should be stated here that King Kheva was not really the sort of boy who would normally intrude on his mother's privacy He was basically a decent lad. But he was also a Drasnian. There is a national trait among prasnians which, for want of a better term, might be called curiosity. All people are curious to a certain degree, but in Drasnians the trait was quite nearly compulsive. Some contended that it was their innate curiosity which has made spying their national industry. Others maintained with equal vigor that generations of spying had honed the Drasnians' natural curiosity to a fine edge. The debate was much like the endless argument about the chicken and the egg, and almost as pointless. Quite early in life, Kheva had trailed unobtrusively along behind one of the official court spies and thereby discovered the closet hidden behind the east wall of his mother's sitting room. Periodically he would slip into that closet in order to keep track of affairs of state and any other matters of interest. He was the king, after all, and thus he had a perfect right to the information. He reasoned that by spying, he could obtain it while sparing his mother the inconvenience of passing it on to him. Kheva was a considerate boy.

  The conversation in question had concerned the mysterious disappearance of the Earl of Trellheim, his ship Seabird, and a number of other individuals, including Trellheim's son Unrak.

  Barak, Earl of Trellheim, was considered in some quarters to be an unreliable sort, and his companions in this vanishing were, if anything, even worse. The Alorn kings were disquieted by the potential for disaster represented by Barak and his cohorts roaming loose in the Gods only knew what ocean.

  What concerned young King Kheva, however, was not so much random disasters as it was the fact that his friend Unrak had been invited to participate while he had not. The injustice of mat rankled. The fact that he was a king seemed to automatically exclude him from anything that could even remotely be considered hazardous. Everyone went out of his way to keep Kheva safe and secure, but Kheva did not want to be kept safe and secure. Safety and security were boring, and Kheva was at an age where he would go to any lengths to avoid boredom.

  Clad all in red, he made his way through the marble halls of the palace in Boktor that winter morning. He stopped in front of a large tapestry and made some show of examining it. Then, at least relatively sure that no one was watching—this was Drasnia, after all—he slipped behind the tapestry and into the small closet previously mentioned.

  His mother was conferring with the Nadrak girl Vella and with Yarblek, Prince Kheldar's shabby partner. Vella always made King Kheva nervous. She aroused certain feelings in him with which he was not yet prepared to cope, and so he customarily avoided her. Yarblek, on the other hand, could be quite amusing. His speech was blunt and often colorful and laced with oaths Kheva was not supposed to know the meaning of.

  "They'll turn up, Porenn," Yarblek was assuring Kheva's mother. "Barak just got bored, that's all."

  "I wouldn't be so concerned if he'd gotten bored by himself," Queen Porenn replied, "but the fact that this boredom seems to be an epidemic worries me. Barak's companions aren't the most stable men in the world."

  "I've met them." Yarblek grunted. "You might just be right." He paced up and down for a moment. "I'll have our people keep an eye out for them."

  "Yarblek, I've got the finest intelligence service in the world."

  "Perhaps so, Porenn, but Silk and I have more men than you do, and we've got offices and warehouses in places Javelin hasn't even heard of." He looked at Vella. "Do you want to go back to Gar og Nadrak with me?" he asked.

  "In the wintertime?" Porenn objected.

  "We'll just wear more clothes, that's all." Yarblek shrugged.

  "What are you going to do there?" Vella asked. "I'm not really very interested in sitting around listening to you talk business."

  “I thought we'd go to Yar Nadrak. Javelin's people don't seem to be having much luck finding out what Drosta's up to." He broke off and looked speculatively at Queen Porenn. "Unless they've picked up something lately I haven't heard about yet," he added.

  "Would I keep secrets from you, Yarblek?" she asked with mock innocence.

  "Probably, yes. If you've got something, Porenn, share it with me. I don't want to make the trip for nothing, and Yar Nadrak's a miserable place in the winter."

  "Nothing yet," she replied seriously.

  Yarblek grunted. "I didn't think so. Drasnians look too much like Drasnians to be able to move around in Yar Nadrak without attracting attention." He glanced at Vella. "Well?" he asked.

  "Why not?" she agreed. "Don't take this personally, Porenn, but this project of yours—trying to turn me into a lady-is starting to distract me just a (ittle. Would you believe mat yesterday I left my room with only one of my daggers? I think I need some fresh air and stale beer to clear my head.”

  Kheva's mother sighed. "Try not to forget everything I’ve taught you, Vella."

  "I have a very good memory, and I can tell the difference between Boktor and
Yar Nadrak. Boktor smells better, for one thing."

  "How long will you be gone?" Porenn asked the rangy Yarblek.

  "A month or two, I'd imagine. I think we'll want to go to Yar Nadrak by a roundabout route. I don't want to announce to Drosta that I'm coming."

  "All right then," the queen agreed. Then she thought of something. "One last thing, Yarblek."

  "Yes?"

  "I'm very fond of Vella. Don't make the mistake of selling her while you're in Gar og Nadrak. I'd be very put out if you did that."

  "Who'd buy her?" Yarblek responded. Then he grinned and skipped out of the way as Vella automatically went for one of her daggers.

  Eternal Salmissra looked with some distaste at her current Chief Eunuch, Adiss. In addition to being incompetent, Adiss was slovenly. His iridescent robe was food-spotted, and his scalp and face were sparsely stubbled. He had never, she concluded, been more than an opportunist, and now that he had ascended to the position of Chief Eunuch and felt more or less secure there, he had given himself over to the grossest sorts of debauchery. He consumed staggering quantities of some of the most pernicious drugs available in Nyissa and frequently came into her presence with the vacant-eyed shamble of a sleepwalker. He bathed infrequently, and the combination of the climate of Sthiss Tbr and the various drugs he used gave his body a rank, almost rancid, odor. Since the Serpent Queen now sampled the air with her flickering tongue, she could not only smell him but also taste him.

  He groveled on the marble floor before the dais, delivering a report on some unimportant matter in a whining, nasal voice. Unimportant matters filled the Chief Eunuch's days. He devoted himself to petty things, since significant things were beyond his capabilities. With the mindless concentration of a man with severely limited talents, he expanded the trivial out of all proportion and reported it as if it were of earthshaking importance. Most of the time, Salmissra suspected, he was blithely ignorant of the things that should really be receiving his full attention.

  "That will be all, Adiss," she told him in her sibilant whisper, her coils moving restlessly on her divanlike throne.

  "But, my Queen," he protested, the half-dozen or so drugs he had taken since breakfast making him brave, "this matter is of utmost urgency.”

  "To you, perhaps. I am indifferent to it. Hire an assassin to cut off the Satrap's head and have done with it."

  Adiss stared at her in consternation. "B-but, Eternal Sal-missra," he squeaked in horror, "the Satrap is of vital importance to the security of the nation.”

  "The Satrap is a petty time-server who bribes you to keep himself in office. He serves no particular purpose. Remove him and bring me his head as proof of your absolute devotion and obedience."

  "H-hishead?"

  "That's the part that has eyes in it, Adiss," she hissed sarcastically. "Don't make a mistake and bring me a foot instead. Now leave."

  He stumbled backward toward the door, genuflecting every step or two.

  "Oh, Adiss," she added, "don't ever enter the throne room again unless you've bathed."

  He gaped at her in stupid incomprehension.

  "You stink, Adiss. Your stench turns my stomach. Now get out of here."

  He fled.

  "Oh, my Sadi," she sighed half to herself, "where are you? Why have you deserted me?"

  Urgit, High King of Cthol Murgos, was wearing a blue doublet and hose, and he sat up straight on his garish throne in the Drojim Palace. Javelin privately suspected that Urgit's new wife had a great deal to do with the High King's change of dress and demeanor. Urgit was not bearing up too well under the stresses of marriage. His face had a slightly baffled look on it as if something profoundly confusing had entered his life.

  "That is our current assessment of the situation, your Majesty," Javelin concluded his report. "Kal Zakath has so reduced his forces here in Cthol Murgos that you could quite easily sweep them into the sea."

  "That's easy for you to say, Margrave Khendon," Urgit replied a bit petulantly, "but I don't see you Alorns committing any of your forces to assist with the sweeping."

  "Your Majesty raises a slightly delicate point," Javelin said, thinking very fast now. "Although we have agreed from the start that we have a common enemy in the Emperor of Mallorea, the eons of enmity between the Alorns and the Murgos cannot be erased overnight. Do you really want a Cherek fleet off your coast or a sea of Algar horsemen on the plains of Cthan and Hagga? The Alorn kings and Queen Porenn will give instructions, certainly, but commanders in the field have a way of interpreting royal commands to suit their own preconceptions. Your Murgo generals might very well also choose to misunderstand your instructions when they see a horde of Alorns bearing down on them."

  "That's true, isn't it?" Urgit conceded. "What about the Tolnedran legions then? There have always been good relations between Tolnedra and Cthol Murgos."

  Javelin coughed delicately and then looked around with some show of checking for unwanted listeners. Javelin knew that he must move with some care now. Urgit was proving to be far more shrewd than any of them had anticipated. Indeed, he was at times as slippery as an eel and he seemed to know instinctively exactly the way Javelin's fine-tuned Drasnian mind was working. "I trust this won't go any further, your Majesty?" he said in a half whisper.

  "You have my word on it, Margrave," Urgit whispered back. "Although anyone who takes the word of a Murgo—anda member of the Urga Dynasty as well—shows very poor judgment. Murgos are notoriously untrustworthy, and all Urgas are quite mad, you know."

  Javelin chewed on a fingernail, strongly suspecting that he was being outmaneuvered. "We've received some disquieting information from Tol Honeth." "Oh?"

  "You know how the Tblnedrans are—always alert for the main chance."

  "Oh, my goodness, yes." Urgit laughed. "Some of the fondest memories of my childhood come from the times when Taur Urgas, my late, unlamented father, fell to chewing on the furniture when he received the latest proposal from Ran Borune." "Now mind you, your Majesty," Javelin went on, "I'm not 'Suggesting that Emperor Varana himself is in any way involved m this, but there are some fairly high-ranking Tolnedran nobles whoVe been in contact with Mal Zeth." "•:. "That's disturbing, isn't it? But Varana controls the legions. -As long as he's opposed to Zakath, we're safe." "That's true—as long as Varana's alive."

  "Are you suggesting the possibility of a coup?"

  “It's not unheard of, your Majesty. Your own kingdom gives evidence of that. The great families in northern Tolnedra are still infuriated about the way the Borunes and Anadiles pulled a march on them and put Varana on the imperial throne. If something happens to Varana and he's succeeded by a Vordue or a Honeth or a Horbite, all assurances go out the window. An alliance between Mal Zeth and Tol Honeth could be an absolute disaster for Murgo and Alorn alike. More than that, though, if such an alliance were kept a secret and you had Tblnedran legions in force here in Cthol Murgos and they received sudden instructions to change sides, you'd be caught between an army of Tolnedrans and an army of Malioreans. That isn't my idea of a pleasant way to spend a summer."

  Urgit shuddered.

  "Under the circumstances, your Majesty," Javelin went on smoothly, "I'd advise the following course." He began ticking items off on his fingers. "One: There's a vastly diminished Mal-lorean presence here in Cthol Murgos. Two: An Alom force inside your borders would be neither necessary nor advisable. You have enough troops of your own to drive the Malioreans out, and we'd be ill-advised to risk any accidental confrontations between your people and ours. Three: The rather murky political situation in Tolnedra makes it extremely risky to contemplate bringing the legions down here."

  "Waitaminute, Khendon," Urgit objected. "You came here to Rak Urga with all sorts of glowing talk about alliances and commonality of interests, but now when it's time to put troops into the field, you back down. Why have you been wasting my time?"

  “The situation has changed since we began our negotiations, your Majesty," Javelin told him. "We did not anticipate a
Mal-lorean withdrawal of such magnitude, and we certainly didn't expect instability in Tolnedra."

  “What am I going to get out of this then?”

  “What is Kal Zakath likely to do the minute he gets word that you're marching on his strongholds?"

  "He'll turn around and send his whole stinking army back to Cthol Murgos."

  "Through a Cherek fleet?" Javelin suggested. "He tried that after Thull Mardu, remember? King Anheg and his berserkers sank most of his ships and drowned his troops by the regiment.”

  "That's true, isn't it?" Urgit mused. "Do you think Anheg

  might be willing to blockade the east coast to keep Zakath's army from returning?"

  "I think he'd be delighted. Chereks take such childlike pleasure in sinking other people's boats."

  “He'd need charts in order to make his way around the southern tip of Cthol Murgos, though,” Urgit said thoughtfully.

  Javelin coughed. "Ah—we already have those, your Majesty," he said deprecatingly.

  Urgit slammed his fist down on the arm of his throne. “Hang it all, Khendon! You're here as an ambassador, not as a spy."

  "Just keeping in practice, your Majesty," Javelin replied blandly. "Now," he went on, "in addition to a Cherek fleet in the Sea of the East, we're prepared to line the northern and western borders of Goska and the northwestern border of Araga with Algar cavalry and Drasnian pikemen. That would effectively cut off escape routes for the Malioreans trapped in Cthol Murgos, block Kal Zakath's favorite invasion route down through Mishrak ac Thull, and seal off the Tolnedran legions in the event of an accommodation between Tol Honeth and Mal Zeth. That way, everybody defends more or less his own territory, and the Chereks keep the Mailoreans off the continent so that we can settle it all to our own satisfaction."