Belgarath the Sorcerer and Polgara the Sorceress

by David Eddings

  His eyes went wary. ‘I’m sorry, madame,’ he said, recovering quickly. ‘I haven’t the faintest idea of what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Are we actually going to play that tiresome game all the way out to its inevitable conclusion?’ I asked him. ‘How tedious.’ Even as I spoke, I gently probed into the darkest corners of the imitation Tolnedran’s mind, and I was somewhat surprised to discover that the thing he feared most in all the world was my father! I hadn’t expected that, but I realized that it might make the rest of this business quite a bit easier than I’d expected.

  ‘It seemeth to me that much is transpiring here that I do not understand,’ Kathandrion admitted, looking baffled.

  ‘It’s really quite simple, your Grace,’ I told him. ‘This gentleman who’s been calling himself “Haldon” is actually a Murgo, whose real name is quite probably unpronounceable. Does that help to clarify things?’

  ‘But he doth not look like a Murgo, my Lady.’

  ‘Yes, I noticed that. We’ll have to ask him how he managed it.’

  ‘She lies!’ our Murgo snarled.

  ‘That is most unlikely,’ Kathandrion replied in a chill tone. Then he looked at me. ‘It doth appear that he knows of thee, my Lady.’

  ‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘Evidently Ctuchik warned him about me.’ I looked sternly at our guest. ‘Now we come to the more unpleasant part of the evening, I’m afraid,’ I said with feigned regret. ‘Would you prefer to tell us everything you know about your master’s scheme right here and now? Or am I going to have to persuade you? You are going to tell me what I want to know – eventually. We can do it either way; it’s up to you.’

  His eyes went flat and were suddenly filled with hatred. ‘Do your worst, witch-woman,’ he said defiantly. ‘I am a Dagashi, and I can withstand any torment you can devise.’

  ‘I’m so happy that you’ve dropped that tiresome masquerade,’ I said. ‘Oh, by the way, let me relieve you of that knife you’ve got hidden down the back of your mantle. We’d be so disappointed if you decided to murder yourself – not to mention the terrible mess it’d make on the carpet.’ I translocated the triangular dagger he’d had concealed under his clothes into my own hands and looked at it curiously. ‘What a peculiar implement,’ I noted frowning slightly. ‘Ah, I see. It’s a throwing knife. Very efficient-looking. Shall we press on, then?’ I stared intently into his eyes as I gathered in my Will. I’ll admit that I had a certain advantage in this situation. I was going to show him the image of something he was afraid of, but if it didn’t work, the real thing wasn’t too far away. I made a small gesture with my right hand as I released my Will.

  Yes, I know. Father’s been chiding me about those gestures for thirty or so centuries now, and I’ve been ignoring him for just as long. It’s a question of style, actually, and since I’m the one who’s doing it, I’ll do it any way I like.

  So there.

  Those of you who know my father know that above all else, he’s a performer. This is not to say that he can’t turn mountains inside out if he chooses to, but he always does things with a certain panache, a grand and flamboyant style that’s very impressive. His face is really no more than a tool, and his expressions speak whole volumes. Believe me, I’ve seen all of those expressions at close range over the centuries, and so the illusion I created for the Murgo’s entertainment was very lifelike. Initially, father’s face was stern, accusatory, and the Murgo flinched back from it, his face going pale and his eyes bulging from their sockets.

  Then father frowned, and the Murgo gave vent to a pathetic little squeal and tried to cover his head with his arms.

  Then my father’s illusory face twisted into an expression which I’d seen him practicing in a mirror when he thought I wasn’t watching. His eyes narrowed with his lower eyelids sliding upward, and he tilted his head slightly back so that it almost appeared that he was glaring over the top of those ominous lids. To be honest about it, the expression made him look like a madman right on the verge of tearing someone apart with his teeth.

  Then I hardened the image, giving it that momentary flicker of decision that comes just prior to the releasing of the Will.

  The Murgo screamed and tried to scramble from his chair in sheer panic. ‘No!’ he wailed. ‘Don’t!’

  I froze him in place while he howled and whimpered in absolute terror. ‘Please!’ he shrieked. ‘Please make it go away, Polgara! I’ll do anything! Anything! Just make it go away!’

  There are all sorts of wild stories which have been circulated about me over the years, but I don’t think Kathandrion had actually believed them before. He did now, though, and he drew himself back, looking just a little bit afraid.

  ‘Why don’t you begin by telling me your name, Murgo?’ I suggested, ‘and then you can tell me what a Dagashi is. We’ll go on from there. Always keep in mind the fact that I can bring my father back any time you decide not to cooperate.’

  ‘I’m known as Krachack,’ the Murgo replied in a trembling voice, ‘and the Dagashi are members of a secret order in Cthol Murgos. We gather information and eliminate people who are inconvenient for those who employ us.’

  ‘Spies and hired assassins?’

  ‘If you choose to call us so.’

  ‘How is it that you don’t have Murgo features?’

  ‘Breeding,’ he replied. ‘Our mothers and grandmothers are slave-women from other races. They’re killed after we’re born. I’m about one quarter Murgo.’

  ‘Peculiar,’ I noted, ‘particularly in view of Ctuchik’s obsession with racial purity. Let’s set that aside for now, though. Exactly what’s the purpose of your mission here in Arendia?’

  ‘I’ve been instructed to persuade Duke Kathandrion that Ran Vordue will come to his aid when he attacks Vo Astur. With the help of the legions, Kathandrion would be able to obliterate Asturia. Then I’m to hint that the combined force of Wacite Arends and Tolnedran legions would be able to turn south and do the same thing to Mimbre.’

  ‘That’s absurd,’ I told him. ‘What’s Ran Vordue supposed to get out of this?’

  ‘Southern Mimbre,’ Krachack replied with a shrug, ‘the part where most of the cities are.’

  I looked at Kathandrion. ‘Would it have worked?’ I asked bluntly. ‘Would this offer have tempted you?’

  My friend looked slightly guilty. ‘I do fear me that it might well have, Polgara. In my mind’s eye, I would have become king of most of Arendia, and the civil wars that tear at our beloved homeland would have come to an end.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ I told him. ‘A peace founded on such conniving could not have lasted.’ I turned back to Krachack. ‘I assume that similar schemes are afoot in Vo Astur and Vo Mimbre?’ I suggested.

  Krachack nodded. ‘There are variations, of course – all depending on the strategic positions of the three duchies. I’m told that there are some real Tolnedrans at Vo Mimbre who’ve been bribed to further our plan, but that’s none of my concern. The end result of our maneuvering is to be the same. The three dukes will attack each other, each expecting aid from the legions. Then, when that aid doesn’t materialize, the dukes will feel that they’ve been betrayed. Other Dagashi, posing as Arendish patriots, will urge each one of the dukes to ally himself with the other two and to march on the empire. That’s Ctuchik’s goal, an ongoing war between Tolnedra and Arendia.’

  ‘Tolnedra would crush us!’ Kathandrion exclaimed.

  Krachack shrugged. ‘So? Ctuchik doesn’t care about Arendia, and he doesn’t really care about what happens to her. If Tolnedra annexes her, though, the Alorns will be dragged into it, and that’s what Ctuchik really wants – a war between Tolnedra and Aloria. Once that starts, Ctuchik can go to Ashaba and hand Torak a divided west on a platter. Ctuchik will be Torak’s most favored disciple, standing above Zedar and Urvon, and the Malloreans will come across the Sea of the East. All of Angarak will fall on the divided kingdoms of the west and annihilate them. Torak will become the God of all humanity.’

&
nbsp; I’m sure that Lelldorin will recognize the general pattern of the scheme. A Murgo named Nachak tried something very similar in Arendia a few years back. Ctuchik did tend to repeat himself.

  Kathandrion and I questioned Krachack the Murgo until almost dawn, and then we had him quietly taken down to the lowest level of the dungeon. The Wacite Duke was more than a little startled by the complexity of Ctuchik’s plot. ‘It astounds me that any man can be so devious, Polgara,’ he admitted. ‘Are all Murgo minds thus?’

  ‘I rather doubt it, my friend,’ I replied. ‘Ctuchik studied at the feet of Torak himself, and then he had centuries to practice his art on his fellow-disciples, Urvon and Zedar. There’s no love lost between those three, and Torak prefers it that way. The Dragon God brings out and exploits the worst in human nature.’ I considered the situation. ‘I think I’d better go on to Vo Astur directly,’ I mused. ‘I’m fairly sure that events there are moving to a head as rapidly as they are here – and in Vo Mimbre as well. These assorted plots almost have to be coordinated to reach their culmination at roughly the same time, and what’s been happening here is rapidly coming to a climax.’

  ‘I shall provide thee with an escort, Polgara.’

  ‘Kathandrion,’ I reminded him gently, ‘you’re technically at war with Asturia, remember? If I go to Vo Astur with a Wacite escort, aren’t people likely to talk?’

  ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘I did it again, didn’t I?’ He looked a bit embarrassed.

  ‘I’m afraid so, my friend. We’re going to have to work on that. Don’t be concerned, Kathandrion. The Asturians won’t even see me – until I’m ready for them to.’

  I left later that same day, and after Lady and I had traveled for about an hour, I probed the surrounding forest with my thought. There weren’t any Arends in the vicinity, but there was someone else. ‘Well, father,’ I said aloud, ‘are you coming along or not?’

  His silence was just ever so slightly guilty. ‘Keep your nose out of this, Old Man,’ I told him. ‘I think this is one of those “tests” you’re so fond of talking about. Watch, but don’t get involved. You can grade me after it’s all over. Oh, I’m going on ahead. Since you insist on trailing along after me, why don’t you bring Lady with you.’

  I love to do that to him.

  Events were moving at a quickening pace, so speed was very important. I’d decided earlier to forego my favorite alternative form and to use a falcon instead.

  Vo Astur was constructed of granite, and its grey walls were thick and high and surmounted by grim battlements. It was a depressing city that crouched on the southern bank of the Astur River. There were centuries-old feuds going on in Asturia, and every nobleman of any consequence lived inside a fort. The seat of the Asturian government was no exception. Asturia was filled to the brim with intrigue, plots, ambushes, poisonings, and surprise attacks, so caution was the course of prudence, I guess.

  There was no real point in going through the inevitable interrogation at the city gate, so I spiraled down toward the ducal palace instead as evening drew over the fortified city. I settled unobserved in a secluded corner of the courtyard and resumed my real form. Then I slipped around the outer edge of the flagstoned yard, approached the ornate door of the palace, ‘encouraged’ the guards to take a brief nap, and went on inside.

  My father had frequently impressed upon me the idea that there are times when it’s necessary for us to be unremarkable in the presence of others, and he’s devised many ways to achieve that. My own favorite is to exude a sense of familiarity. It’s a subtle sort of thing. People can look at me without actually seeing me. They’re sure that they know me, but they can’t quite remember my name. In social situations, this can be very useful. In effect, I just become a part of the background.

  Kathandrion had advised me that the Asturians spoke an ‘outlandish dialect’, so I loitered in a long, dim corridor until a group of gaily-dressed courtiers, both men and women, came by, and I joined them and listened carefully as they spoke. I noted that the Asturians had discarded ‘high style’ and spoke to each other in a more commonplace fashion. Asturia was bounded on one side by the Sea of the West, and she had far more contact with outsiders than did either Wacune or Mimbre. The people here yearned to be ‘modern’, and so they rather slavishly imitated the speech of those outsiders with whom they came in contact. Unfortunately, many of those outsiders just happened to be sailors, and sailors probably aren’t the best source of linguistic elegance. I devoutly hoped that the giddy young ladies in the group I’d joined didn’t fully understand the meaning of some of the words and phrases that tumbled from their lips.

  Since all three of the Arendish dukes had royal pretensions, each of their palaces had a ‘throne-room’, and Astur was no exception. The cluster of nobles I’d joined entered the central hall that served that purpose here, and I drifted away from them and worked my way through the slightly tipsy throng toward the front of the hall.

  Over the years I’ve had occasion to observe drunkenness in its assorted forms, and I’ve noticed some variations. A man who’s over-indulged in beer or ale is rowdier than one soaked in wine, and those who prefer distilled spirits tend toward open belligerence. The Asturians preferred wine, and wine-tipplers either giggle or weep when in their cups. The Arendish fondness for high tragedy made them lean in the direction of melancholy. A drinking party in Asturia is a gloomy sort of affair, rather on the order of a funeral on a rainy night.

  Oldoran, the Asturian Duke, was a small ratty little man, and he was obviously far gone in drink. He sprawled morosely on his throne with a look of profound suffering on his pouchy little face. A man in a Tolnedran mantle of an unappetizing yellow color stood just at his right elbow, frequently leaning over to whisper in the duke’s ear. I carefully sent out a probing thought, and the color that came back from the supposed Tolnedran was not red. It appeared that I had another Murgo on my hands.

  I spent the next couple of hours drifting around the hall and listening to snatches of conversation. I soon gathered that Duke Oldoran was not held in very high regard. ‘Drunken little weasel’ was probably the kindest thing I heard said of him. I further gathered that Oldoran was almost completely in the grasp of the counterfeit Tolnedran at his side. Though I was fairly sure that I could sever that particular connection, I couldn’t for the life of me see any advantage to be had from it. I could probably change Oldoran’s opinions, but I couldn’t change Oldoran himself. He was a petty, self-pitying drunkard with very little intelligence and with that sublime belief so common among the truly stupid that he was the most clever man in all the world. I had a problem here.

  The sodden little Oldoran kept calling for more wine, and he eventually lapsed into unconsciousness.

  ‘It would appear that our beloved duke is a trifle indisposed,’ an elderly courtier with snowy hair, but surprisingly youthful eyes, noted in a dryly ironic tone. ‘How do you think we should deal with this, my lords and ladies? Should we put him to bed? Should we dunk him in that fishpond in the garden until he regains his senses? Or, should we perhaps adjourn to some other place where our revelry won’t interrupt his snoring?’ He bowed to the laughing throng ironically. ‘I shall be guided by the collective wisdom of the court in this matter. How say you, nobles all?’

  ‘I like the fishpond myself,’ one matronly lady suggested.

  ‘Oh, dear, no, Baroness!’ a pretty young lady with dark hair and mischievous eyes objected. ‘Think of what that would do to the poor carp who live there.’

  ‘If we’re going to dump Oldoran in his bed, we’d better wring him out a little first, my Lord Mangaran,’ one half-drunk courtier bellowed to the ironical old nobleman. “The little sot’s soaked up so much wine that he’s almost afloat.’

  ‘Yes,’ the Lord Mangaran murmured. ‘I noticed that myself. His Grace has an amazing capacity for one so dwarfed.’

  Then the pretty lady with the mischievous eyes struck an overly dramatic pose. ‘My lords and ladies,’ she declaimed, ‘I s
uggest a moment of silence out of respect for our poor little Oldoran. Then perhaps we’d better leave him in the capable hands of Earl Mangaran, who’s performed this office so often that he doesn’t really need our advice. Then, after his Grace has been wrung out and poured into bed, we can toast the good fortune that’s removed him from our midst.’

  They all bowed their heads, but the ‘moment of silence’ was marred by a certain amount of muffled laughter.

  I’m sure that Lelldorin, and indeed all Asturians, will be offended by what I’ve just set down, but it is the truth. It took centuries of suffering to grind the rough edges off the crude, unscrupulous Asturians. That was my first encounter with them, and in many ways they almost seemed like southern Alorns.

  The young lady who’d just proposed that moment of silence laid the back of her wrist theatrically to her forehead. ‘Would someone please bring me another cup of wine,’ she asked in a tragic voice. ‘Speaking in public absolutely exhausts me.’

  The Murgo who’d been at Oldoran’s elbow had faded back into the crowd, and so he was nowhere to be seen when a pair of burly footmen hoisted the snoring duke from his throne and bore him from the hall.

  I withdrew to a little alcove to consider the situation. My original plan when I’d left Vo Wacune had been to expose the resident Murgo here to the duke and then let him deal with it, but Oldoran wasn’t in the same class with Kathandrion, and I’ve observed over the years that stupid people rarely change their minds. I fell back on logic at that point. If Oldoran wouldn’t suit my purposes, the simplest course would be to replace him with someone who would.

  The more I thought about that, the better I liked the idea. The Murgo wouldn’t be expecting it, for one thing. My father and uncle Beldin had described the Angarak character to me on many occasions, and Angaraks are constitutionally incapable of questioning authority of any kind. The word ‘revolution’ is simply not in their vocabulary.