Pawn of Prophecy tb-1

by David Eddings

  Silk looked very hard at Garion.

  "Very good," he said softly. "Very, very good." He glanced at Aunt Pol. "My compliments, Mistress Pol. You've raised a rare boy here."

  "What did this Asharak look like?" Wolf asked quickly.

  "A Murgo." Silk shrugged. "He said he was from Rak Goska. I took him to be an ordinary spy on some business that didn't concern us. My mind seems to have gone to sleep."

  "It happens when one deals with Grolims," Wolf told him.

  "Someone's watching us," Durnik said quietly, "from that window up there."

  Garion looked up quickly and saw a dark shape at a second-story window outlined by a dim light. The shape was hauntingly familiar. Mister Wolf did not look up, but his face turned blank as if he were looking inward, or his mind were searching for something. Then he drew himself up and looked at the figure in the window, his eyes blazing. "A Grolim," he said shortly.

  "A dead one perhaps," Silk said. He reached inside his tunic and drew out a long, needle-pointed dirk. He took two quick steps away from the house where the Grolim stood watching, spun and threw the dirk with a smooth, overhand cast.

  The dirk crashed through the window. There was a muffled shout, and the light went out. Garion felt a strange pang in his left arm.

  "Marked him," Silk said with a grin.

  "Good throw," Barak said admiringly.

  "One has picked up certain skills," Silk said modestly. "If it was Asharak, I owed him that for deceiving me in Mingan's counting room."

  "At least it'll give him something to think about," Wolf said. "There's no point in trying to creep through town now. They know we're here. Let's mount and ride." He climbed onto his horse and led the way down the street at a quick walk.

  The compulsion was gone now, and Garion wanted to tell them about Asharak, but there was no chance for that as they rode.

  Once they reached the outskirts of the city, they nudged their horses into a fast canter. The snow was falling more seriously now, and the hoof churned ground in the vast cattle pens was already faintly dusted with white.

  "It's going to be a cold night," Silk shouted as they rode.

  "We could always go back to Muros," Barak suggested. "Another scuffle or two might warm your blood."

  Silk laughed and put his heels to his horse again.

  The encampment of the Algars was three leagues to the east of Muros. It was a large area surrounded by a stout palisade of poles set in the ground. The snow by now was falling thickly enough to make the camp look hazy and indistinct. The gate, flanked by hissing torches, was guarded by two fierce-looking warriors in leather leggings, snow-dusted jerkins of the same material, and pot-shaped steel helmets. The points of their lances glittered in the torchlight.

  "Halt," one of the warriors commanded, leveling his lance at Mister Wolf. "What business have you here at this time of night?"

  "I have urgent need of speaking with your herd master," Wolf replied politely. "May I step down?"

  The two guards spoke together briefly.

  "You may come down," one of them said. "Your companions, however, must withdraw somewhat—but not beyond the light."

  "Algars!" Silk muttered under his breath. "Always suspicious."

  Mister Wolf climbed down from his horse, and, throwing back his hood, approached the two guards through the snow.

  Then a strange thing happened. The elder of the two guards stared at Mister Wolf, taking in his silver hair and beard. His eyes suddenly opened very wide. He quickly muttered something to his companion, and the two men bowed deeply to Wolf.

  "There isn't time for that," Wolf said in annoyance. "Convey me to your herd master."

  "At once, Ancient One," the elder guard said quickly and hurried to open the gate.

  "What was that about?" Garion whispered to Aunt Pol.

  "Algars are superstitious," she said shortly. "Don't ask so many questions."

  They waited with snow settling down upon them and melting on their horses. After about a half hour, the gate opened again and two dozen mounted Algars, fierce in their rivet-studded leather vests and steel helmets, herded six saddled horses out into the snow.

  Behind them Mister Wolf walked, accompanied by a tall man with his head shaved except for a flowing scalp lock.

  "You have honored our camp by your visit, Ancient One," the tall man was saying, "and I wish you all speed on your journey."

  "I have little fear of being delayed with Algar horses under us," Wolf replied.

  "My riders will accompany you along a route they know which will put you on the far side of Muros within a few hours," the tall man said. "They will then linger for a time to be certain you are not followed."

  "I cannot express my gratitude, noble herd master," Wolf said, bowing.

  "It is I who am grateful for the opportunity to be of service," the herd master said, also bowing.

  The change to their new horses took only a minute. With half of their contingent of Algars leading and the other half bringing up the rear, they turned and rode back toward the west through the dark, snowy night.

  Chapter Ten

  GRADUALLY, ALMOST IMPERCEPTIBLY, the darkness became paler as the softly falling snow made indistinct even the arrival of morning. Their seemingly inexhaustible horses pounded on through the growing light, the sound of their hooves muffled by the snow now lying fetlock-deep on the broad surface of the Great North Road. Garion glanced back once and saw the jumbled tracks of their passage stretching behind them and, already at the hazy gray limit of his vision, beginning to fill with concealing snow.

  When it was fully light, Mister Wolf reined in his steaming horse and proceeded at a walk for a time.

  "How far have we come?" he asked Silk.

  The weasel-faced man who had been shaking the snow out of the folds of his cloak looked around, trying to pick out a landmark in the misty veil of dropping flakes.

  "Ten leagues," he said finally. "Perhaps a bit more."

  "This is a miserable way to travel," Barak rumbled, wincing slightly as he shifted his bulk in the saddle.

  "Think of how your horse must feel." Silk grinned at him.

  "How far is it to Camaar?" Aunt Pol asked.

  "Forty leagues from Muros," Silk told her.

  "We'll need shelter then," she said. "We can't gallop forty leagues without rest, no matter who's behind us."

  "I don't think we need to worry about pursuit just now," Wolf said. "The Algars will detain Brill and his hirelings or even Asharak if they try to follow us."

  "At least there's something Algars are good for," Silk said dryly.

  "If I remember correctly, there should be an imperial hostel about five leagues farther to the west," Wolf said. "We ought to reach it by noon."

  "Will we be allowed to stay there?" Durnik asked doubtfully. "I've never heard that Tolnedrans are noted for hospitality."

  "Tolnedrans will sell anything for a price," Silk said. "The hostel would be a good place to stop. Even if Brill or Asharak should evade the Algars and follow us there, the legionnaires won't permit any foolishness within their walls."

  "Why should there be Tolnedran soldiers in Sendaria?" Garion asked, feeling a brief surge of patriotic resentment at the thought.

  "Wherever the great roads are, you'll find the legions," Silk said. "Tolnedrans are even better at writing treaties than they are at giving short weight to their customers."

  Mister Wolf chuckled. "You're inconsistent, Silk," he said. "You don't object to their highways, but you dislike their legions. You can't have the one without the other."

  "I've never pretended to be consistent," the sharp-nosed man said airily. "If we want to reach the questionable comfort of the imperial hostel by noon, hadn't we better move along? I wouldn't want to deny His Imperial Majesty the opportunity to pick my pocket."

  "All right," Wolf said, "let's ride." And he put his heels to the flanks of the Algar horse which had already begun to prance impatiently under him.

  The hostel
, when they reached it in the full light of snowy noon, proved to be a series of stout buildings surrounded by an even stouter wall. The legionnaires who manned it were not the same sort of men as the Tolnedran merchants Garion had seen before. Unlike the oily men of commerce, these were hard-faced professional fighting men in burnished breastplates and plumed helmets. They carried themselves proudly, even arrogantly, each bearing the knowledge that the might of all Tolnedra was behind him.

  The food in the dining hall was plain and wholesome, but dreadfully expensive. The tiny sleeping cubicles were scrupulously clean, with hard, narrow beds and thick woolen blankets, and were also expensive. The stables were neat, and they too reached deeply into Mister Wolf's purse. Garion wondered at the thought of how much their lodging was costing, but Wolf paid for it all with seeming indifference as if his purse were bottomless.

  "We'll rest here until tomorrow," the white-bearded old man announced when they had finished eating. "Maybe it will snow itself out by morning. I'm not happy with all this plunging blindly through a snowstorm. Too many things can hide in our path in such weather."

  Garion, who by now was numb with exhaustion, heard these words gratefully as he half drowsed at the table. The others sat talking quietly, but he was too tired to listen to what they said.

  "Garion," Aunt Pol said finally, "why don't you go to bed?"

  "I'm all right, Aunt Pol," he said, rousing himself quickly, mortified once more at being treated like a child.

  "Now, Garion," she said in that infuriating tone he knew so well. It seemed that all his life she had been saying "Now, Garion," to him. But he knew better than to argue.

  He stood up and was surprised to feel that his legs were trembling. Aunt Pol also rose and led him from the dining hall.

  "I can find my way by myself," he objected.

  "Of course," she said. "Now come along."

  After he had crawled into bed in his cubicle, she pulled his blankets up firmly around his neck. "Stay covered," she told him. "I don't want you taking cold." She laid her cool hand briefly on his forehead as she had done when he was a small child.

  "Aunt Pol?" he asked drowsily.

  "Yes, Garion?"

  "Who were my parents? I mean, what were their names?"

  She looked at him gravely. "We can talk about that later," she said.

  "I want to know," he said stubbornly.

  "All right. Your father's name was Geran; your mother's was Ildera."

  Garion thought about that.

  "The names don't sound Sendarian," he said finally.

  "They're not," Aunt Pol said.

  "Why was that?"

  "It's a very long story," she said, "and you're much too tired to hear it just now."

  On a sudden impulse he reached out and touched the white lock at her brow with the mark on the palm of his right hand. As had some times happened before, a window seemed to open in his mind at the tingling touch, but this time that window opened on something much more serious. There was anger, and a single face-a face that was strangely like Mister Wolf's, but was not his face, and all the towering fury in the world was directed at that face.

  Aunt Pol moved her head away. "I've asked you not to do that, Garion," she said, her tone very matter-of fact. "You're not ready for it yet.

  "You're going to have to tell me what it is someday," he said.

  "Perhaps," she said, "but not now. Close your eyes and go to sleep."

  And then, as if that command had somehow dissolved his will, he fell immediately into a deep, untroubled sleep.

  By the next morning it had stopped snowing. The world outside the walls of the imperial hostel was mantled in thick, unbroken white, and the air was filmy with a kind of damp haze that was almost-but not quite-fog.

  "Misty Sendaria," Silk said ironically at breakfast. "Sometimes I'm amazed that the entire kingdom doesn't rust shut."

  They traveled all that day at a mile-eating canter, and that night there was another imperial hostel, almost identical to the one they had left that morning—so closely identical in fact that it almost seemed to Garion that they had ridden all day and merely arrived back where they had started. He commented on that to Silk as they were putting their horses in the stable.

  "Tolnedrans are nothing if not predictable," Silk said. "All their hostels are exactly the same. You can find these same buildings in Drasnia, Algaria, Arendia and any place else their great roads go. It's their one weakness—this lack of imagination."

  "Don't they get tired of doing the same thing over and over again?"

  "It makes them feel comfortable, I guess." Silk laughed. "Let's go see about supper."

  It snowed again the following day, but by noon Garion caught a scent other than that faintly dusty odor snow always seemed to have. Even as he had done when they had approached Darine, he began to smell the sea, and he knew their journey was almost at an end.

  Camaar, the largest city in Sendaria and the major seaport of the north, was a sprawling place which had existed at the mouth of the Greater Camaar River since antiquity. It was the natural western terminus of the Great North Road which stretched to Boktor in Drasnia and the equally natural northern end of the Great West Road which reached down across Arendia into Tolnedra and the imperial capital at Tol Honeth. With some accuracy it could be said that all roads ended at Camaar.

  Late on a chill, snowy afternoon, they rode down a gradual hill toward the city. Some distance from the gate, Aunt Pol stopped her horse. "Since we're no longer posing as vagabonds," she announced, "I see no further need for selecting the most disreputable inns, do you?"

  "I hadn't really thought about it," Mister Wolf said.

  "Well, I have," she said. "I've had more than enough of wayside hostels and seedy village inns. I need a bath, a clean bed and some decent food. If you don't mind, I'll choose our lodging this time."

  "Of course, Pol," Wolf said mildly. "Whatever you say."

  "Very well, then," she said and rode on toward the city gate with the rest of them trailing behind her.

  "What is your business in Camaar?" one of the fur-mantled guards at the broad gate asked rather rudely.

  Aunt Pol threw back her hood and fixed the man with a steely gaze. "I am the Duchess of Erat," she announced in ringing tones. "These are my retainers, and my business in Camaar is my own affair."

  The guard blinked and then bowed respectfully.

  "Forgive me, your Grace," he said. "I didn't intend to give offense."

  "Indeed?" Aunt Pol said, her tone still cold and her gaze still dangerous.

  "I did not recognize your Grace," the poor man floundered, squirming under that imperious stare. "May I offer any assistance?"

  "I hardly think so," Aunt Pol said, looking him up and down. "Which is the finest inn in Camaar?"

  "That would be the Lion, my Lady."

  "And-?" she said impatiently.

  "And what, my Lady?" the man said, confused by her question.

  "Where is it?" she demanded. "Don't stand there gaping like a dolt. Speak up."

  "It lies beyond the customs houses," the guard replied, flushing at her words. "Follow this street until you reach Customs Square. Anyone there can direct you to the Lion."

  Aunt Pol pulled her hood back up.

  "Give the fellow something," she said over her shoulder and rode on into the city without a backward glance.

  "My thanks," the guard said as Wolf leaned down to hand him a small coin. "I must admit that I haven't heard of the Duchess of Erat before."

  "You're a fortunate man," Wolf said.

  "She's a great beauty," the man said admiringly.

  "And has a temper to match," Wolf told him.

  "I noticed that," the guard said.

  "We noticed you noticing," Silk told him slyly.

  They nudged their horses and caught up with Aunt Pol.

  "The Duchess of Erat?" Silk asked mildly.

  "The fellow's manner irritated me," Aunt Pol said loftily, "and I'm tired of putting
on a poor face in front of strangers."

  At Customs Square Silk accosted a busy-looking merchant trudging across the snow-covered paving. "You-fellow," he said in the most insulting way possible, pulling his horse directly in front of the startled merchant. "My mistress, the Duchess of Erat, requires directions to an inn called the Lion. Be so good as to provide them."

  The merchant blinked, his face flushing at the rat-faced man's tone.

  "Up that street," he said shortly, pointing. "Some goodly way. It will be on your left. There's a sign of a Lion at the front."

  Silk sniffed ungraciously, tossed a few coins into the snow at the man's feet and whirled his horse in a grand manner. The merchant, Garion noted, looked outraged, but he did grope in the snow for the coins Silk had thrown.

  "I doubt that any of these people will quickly forget our passage," Wolf said sourly when they were some ways up the street.

  "They'll remember the passage of an arrogant noblewoman," Silk said. "This is as good a disguise as any we've tried."

  When they arnved at the inn, Aunt Pol commanded not just the usual sleeping chambers but an entire apartment. "My chamberlain there will pay you," she said to the innkeeper, indicating Mister Wolf. "Our baggage horses are some days behind with the rest of my servants, so I'll require the services of a dressmaker and a maid. See to it." And she turned and swept imperially up the long staircase that led to her apartment, following the servant who scurried ahead to show her the way.

  "The duchess has a commanding presence, doesn't she?" the innkeeper ventured as Wolf began counting out coins.

  "She has indeed," Wolf agreed. "I've discovered the wisdom of not countering her wishes."

  "I'll be guided by you then," the innkeeper assured him. "My youngest daughter is a serviceable girl. I'll dispatch her to serve as her Grace's maid."

  "Many thanks, friend," Silk told him. "Our Lady becomes most irntable when those things she desires are delayed, and we're the ones who suffer most from her displeasure."

  They trooped up the stairs to the apartments Aunt Pol had taken and stepped into the main sitting room, a splendid chamber far richer than any Garion had seen before. The walls were covered by tapestries with intricate pictures woven into the fabric. A wealth of candles—real wax instead of smoky tallow—gleamed in sconces on the walls and in a massive candelabra on the polished table. A good warm fire danced merrily on the hearth, and a large carpet of curious design lay on the floor.