They clattered through the deserted midnight streets of Rak Urga with the king’s torch-bearing guards drawn up closely around them. “It’s all a sham, of course,” Urgit was saying to Sadi. “I bow and scrape to Agachak, mouth pious platitudes to make him happy, and keep my real opinions to myself. I need his support, so I have to stay on the good side of him. He knows that, so he takes every possible advantage of the situation.”
“The bond between Church and State here in Cthol Murgos is well known,” Sadi noted as they entered a broad square where flaring torches painted the sides of nearby buildings a smoky orange.
Urgit made an indelicate sound. “Bond!” he snorted, “More like a chain, Sadi—and it’s around my neck.” He looked up at the murky sky, his sharp-featured face ruddy in the torchlight. “Agachak and I agree on one thing, though. It’s absolutely essential to get the Dagashi Kabach to Rak Hagga before winter sets in. Jaharb’s had his people combing all of western Cthol Murgos for months looking for a slaver to slip Kabach through Malloreon lines.” He suddenly grinned at Sadi. “As luck had it, the one he found just happened to be an old friend of mine. I don’t know that we need to let Agachak know that we’re acquainted, though. I like to keep a few secrets from him.”
Sadi made a sour face. “It’s not too hard to guess why you’re sending an assassin to the city where Kal Zakath’s headquarters are located.”
“I wouldn’t advise lingering for any sight-seeing after you get him there,” Urgit agreed. “But then, Rak Hagga’s not a very attractive town anyway.”
Sadi nodded glumly. “That’s more or less what I thought.” He considered it, running one long-fingered hand over his shaven scalp. “The death of Zakath won’t really solve your problem, though, will it? I can’t really see the Malloreon generals packing up and going home just because their emperor’s been killed.”
Urgit sighed. “One thing at a time, Sadi. I can probably bribe the generals, or pay them tribute or something. The first step is to get rid of Zakath. You can’t reason with that man.” He looked around at the bleak stone buildings, harshly illuminated by flickering torchlight. “I hate this place,” he said suddenly. “I absolutely hate it.”
“Rak Urga?”
“Cthol Murgos, Sadi. I hate the whole stinking country. Why couldn’t I have been born in Tolnedra—or maybe Sendaria? Why did I have to get stuck in Cthol Murgos?”
“But you’re the king.”
“That wasn’t by choice. One of our charming customs is that when a new king is crowned, all other possible contenders for the throne are put to death. For me, it was either the throne or the grave. I had a number of brothers when I became king, but now I’m an only child.” He shuddered. “This is a gloomy subject, don’t you think? Why don’t we talk about something else? Just what are you doing in Cthol Murgos, Sadi? I thought you were Salmissra’s right hand.”
Sadi coughed. “Her Majesty and I had a slight misunderstanding, so I thought it might be better for me to leave Nyissa for a while.”
“Why Cthol Murgos? Why didn’t you go to Tol Honeth instead? It’s much more civilized and much, much more comfortable.” He sighed again. “I’d give anything to be able to live in Tol Honeth.”
“I’ve made some powerful enemies in Tolnedra, your Majesty,” Sadi replied. “I know my way around Cthol Murgos, so I hired these Alorn mercenaries to protect me and came here posing as a slaver.”
“And then Jaharb picked you up,” Urgit guessed. “Poor old Sadi, no matter where you go, you always seem to get mixed up in politics—even when you don’t want to.”
“It’s a curse,” Sadi told him mournfully. “It’s been following me for all my life.”
They rounded a corner and approached a vast, sprawling building surrounded by a high wall. Its domes and towers rose in barbaric, torchlit profusion, and, unlike the rest of Rak Urga, it was garishly painted in a half-dozen conflicting colors. “Behold the Drojim Palace,” King Urgit said extravagantly to Sadi, “the hereditary home of the House of Urga.”
“A most unusual structure, your Majesty,” Sadi murmured.
“That’s a diplomatic way to put it.” Urgit looked critically at his palace. “It’s gaudy, ugly, and in terribly bad taste. It does, however, suit my personality almost perfectly.” He turned to one of his guards. “Be a good fellow and ride on ahead,” he instructed. “Tell the gatekeepers that the High King approaches and that if I have to wait while they open the gate for me, I’ll have their ears cut off.”
“At once, your Majesty.”
Urgit grinned at Sadi. “One of my few amusements,” he explained. “The only people I’m allowed to bully are servants and common soldiers, and all Murgos have a deep-seated need to bully somebody.”
, They rode on through the hastily opened gate and dismounted in a ruddily torchlit courtyard. Urgit looked around at the garishly painted walls of the house. “Ghastly, isn’t it?” He shuddered. “Let’s go inside.”
There was a large door at the top of a flight of stone stairs, and Urgit led them inside and down a long, vaulted corridor. He stopped before a pair of polished double doors guarded by two scar-faced soldiers. “Well?” he said to them.
“Yes, your Majesty?” one replied.
“Do you suppose that I could prevail upon you to open the door?” Urgit asked him. “Or would you prefer an immediate transfer to the war zone?”
“At once, your Majesty,” the soldier replied, quickly yanking the door open.
“Excellently done, my dear fellow. Just try not to jerk it off its hinges next time.” The king strolled through the door and into the room beyond. “My throne room,” he said grandiosely. “The product of whole generations of diseased imaginations.”
The room was larger than the Hall of the Rivan King in Garion’s Citadel. The ceiling was a maze of intersecting vaults, all covered with sheets of the beaten red gold from the mines of Cthol Murgos. The walls and columns were ablaze with inset jewels, and the chairs lined up at the sides of the room were inlaid with more Angarak gold. At the far end of the room stood a bejeweled throne, backed by blood-red drapes. Seated in a simple chair beside that throne was a silver-haired lady, calmly embroidering.
“Hideous, isn’t it?” Urgit said. “The Urgas have been pillaging the treasury at Rak Goska for centuries to decorate the Drojim Palace, but would you believe that the roof still leaks ?” He sauntered to the far end of the room and stopped before the black-gowned lady, who was still busy at her needlework, “Mother,” he greeted her with a slightly mocking bow, “you’re up late, aren’t you?”
“I don’t need as much sleep as I did when I was younger, Urgit.” She set her sewing aside. “Besides,” she added, “we usually talk over the day’s events before you retire for the night.”
“It’s the high point of my day, mother,” he replied with a faint smile tugging at his lips.
She returned his smile with good-humored affection. She was, Garion saw as that smile lighted her face, a remarkably attractive woman. Despite the silvery hair and the few lines at the corners of her eyes, her face still bore the signs of what had once been an extraordinary beauty. A faint movement caught his eye, and he saw Silk shrinking behind Toth’s broad back and drawing up the hood of his green robe to conceal his face.
“Who are your friends, Urgit?” the silver-haired lady asked her son.
“Ah, forgive me, mother. My manners must be slipping.
Allow me to present Sadi, Chief Eunuch to Queen Salmibsra of the land of the snake-people.”
“Formerly Chief Eunuch, I’m afraid,” Sadi corrected. He bowed deeply. “I’m honored to meet the Queen Mother of the Kingdom of the Murgos.”
“Oh,” Urgit said, mounting the dais and sprawling on the throne with one leg cocked up over one of its jeweled arms, “I keep forgetting the amenities. Sadi, this is my royal mother, the Lady Tamazin, jewel of the House of Hagga and grieving widow of my royal father, Taur Urgas the Deranged—may blessings rain down on the hand that sent him to the bosom of Torak.”
“Can’t you ever be serious about anything, Urgit?” his mother chided him.
“But you do grieve, don’t you mother? I know that in your heart you miss all those wonderful moments you spent with my father—watching him gnaw on the furniture, listening to his insane gibbering, and enjoying all those playful blows to the stomach and kicks to the head with which he demonstrated his affection for his wives.”
“That will do, Urgit,” she said firmly.
“Yes, mother.”
“Welcome to the Drojim, Sadi,” Lady Tamazin greeted the eunuch formally. She looked inquiringly at the others.
“My servants, Lady Tamazin,” Sadi said quickly. “Alorns for the most part.”
“A most unusual turn of circumstances,” she murmured. “The age-old war between Murgo and Alorn has denied me the opportunity to meet very many of that race.” She looked directly then at Aunt Pol. “Surely this lady is no servant,” she said skeptically.
“A temporary arrangement, my Lady Tamazin,” Polgara replied with a profoundly graceful curtsy. “I needed some time in another place to avoid some unpleasantness at home.”
The Queen Mother smiled. “I do understand,” she said. “Men play at politics, and women must pay the price for their folly.” She turned back to her son. “And how did your interview with the Hierarch go?” she asked him.
“Not bad.” He shrugged. “I groveled enough to keep him happy.”
“That’s enough, Urgit.” Her voice was sharp. “Agachak’s in a position to do you a great service, so show him the proper respect.”
Urgit flinched slightly at her tone. “Yes, mother,” he replied meekly. “Oh, I almost forgot,” he went on. “The priestess Chabat had a bit of a setback.”
The Queen Mother’s expression became one of disgust. “Her behavior is a public scandal,” she declared. “I can’t understand why Agachak tolerates her.”
“I think he finds her amusing, mother. Grolims have a peculiar sense of humor. Anyway, she had this friend—a very close friend—who had a bit of an accident. She’ll need to find another playmate before she can scandalize the good people of Rak Urga any more.”
“Why do you persist in being so frivolous, Urgit?”
“Why don’t we just call it a symptom of my incipient madness?”
“You’re not going to go mad,” she said firmly.
“Of course I’m going to go mad, mother. I’m rather looking forward to it.”
“You’re impossible to talk with when you’re like this,” she chided him. “Are you going to stay up much longer?”
“I don’t think so. Sadi and I have a few things to discuss, but they can wait until tomorrow,”
The Queen Mother turned back to Polgara. “My quarters are most spacious, Lady,” she said. “Would you and your attendants care to share them with me during your stay here in the Drojim?”
“We would be honored, my Lady,” Polgara said.
“Very well, then,” Urgit’s mother said. “Praia,” she called.
The girl who stepped from the shadows behind the throne was slender and perhaps sixteen years old. She wore a black gown and had long, lustrous black hair. The dark, angular eyes that made most Murgo men look so alien were in her case very large and delicately almond-shaped, giving her features an exotic beauty. Her expression, however, was filled with a resolve uncommon in one so young. She stepped to Lady Tamazin’s chair and helped her to her feet.
Urgit’s face darkened, and his eyes grew flinty as he watched his mother limp down from the dais, leaning heavily on the girl’s shoulder. “A little gift from the inestimable Taur Urgas,” he said to Sadi. “One evening when he was feeling playful, he knocked my mother down a flight of stairs and broke her hip. She’s had that limp ever since.”
“I don’t even notice it any more, Urgit.”
“It’s amazing how all of our minor aches and pains got better right after King Cho-Hag’s saber slid through my father’s guts.” Urgit paused. “I wonder if it’s too late to send Cho-Hag some small token of appreciation,” he added.
“Oh,” the Queen Mother said to Polgara, “this is Lady - Praia, a princess of the House of Cthan.”
“Princess,” Polgara greeted the slender girl supporting Lady Tamazin.
“My Lady,” Praia responded in a clear voice.
Lady Tamazin, leaning on Praia’s shoulder, slowly limped from the room with Polgara, Ce’Nedra, and Velvet close behind her.
“That girl makes me very nervous for some reason,” Urgit muttered to Sadi. “My mother dotes on her, but she has something else on her mind. She never takes her eyes off me.” He shook his head as if to dismiss an unwelcome thought. “You and your people have had a very busy day, Sadi. We can talk further tomorrow after we’ve both had a good night’s sleep.” He reached out and tugged at a silken bellpull, and there was the heavy note of a large gong somewhere outside the throne room. Urgit rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. “Why does it always have to be those great bongs and clangs?” he complained. “Someday, I’d like to tug on a bellpull and hear a tiny little tinkle.”
The door at the far end of the throne room opened, and a heavy-shouldered Murgo of late middle age entered. His hair was gray, and his scarred face was heavily lined. There was no hint that a smile had ever touched that grim face. “Your Majesty rang?” he said in a rasping voice.
“Yes, Oskatat,” Urgit replied in an oddly respectful tone.
“Do you suppose that you could escort my good friend Sadi and his servants to suitable quarters?” He turned back to
Sadi. “Oskatat is Lord High Seneschal here,” he said. “He
Served my father in the same capacity at Rak Goska.” There was no hint of his usual mockery as he spoke. “My mother and I were not popular in my father’s house, and Oskatat. I was the closest thing to a friend either of us had there.”
“My Lord,” Sadi said to the big, gray-haired man with a deep bow.
The seneschal nodded a curt response, then returned his bleak gaze to the king. “Has my Lady Tamazin retired for the night?” he asked.
“Yes, Oskatat.”
“Then you should also seek your bed. The hour is late.”
“I was just on my way,” Urgit answered, getting quickly to his feet. Then he stopped. “Oskatat,” he said plaintively, “I’m not a sickly little boy any more. I don’t really need to spend twelve hours in bed every night the way I used to.”
“The burdens of the crown are many,” the seneschal said shortly. “You need your rest.” He turned back to Sadi. “Follow me,” he said, starting toward the door.
“Until tomorrow then, Sadi,” Urgit said. “Sleep well.”
“My thanks, your Majesty.”
The rooms to which the bleak-faced Oskatat took them were as garish as the rest of the Drojim Palace. The walls were painted an unwholesome mustard-yellow and hung with splotchy tapestries. The furnishings were carved from rare, priceless woods, and the blue Malloreon carpet was as deep as the wool on the back of a sheep. Once he had opened the door for them, Oskatat jerked his head in the briefest of nods, then turned and left them alone.
“Charming fellow there,” Sadi murmured.
Garion had been looking curiously at Silk, who still had his face covered by his hood. “Why are you trying so hard to hide?” he asked.
The little man pulled back his hood with a rueful expression. “One of the disadvantages of being a world traveler is that one keeps running into old friends.”
“I’m not sure I follow you.”
“Do you remember that time when we were on our way to Rak Cthol and Taur Urgas caught me and stuck me in that pit?”
“Yes.”
“And do you remember why he did that—and why he planned to peel off my skin inch by inch the next day?”
“You said that you’d been in Rak Goska once and accidentally killed his eldest son.”
“Right. You have an excellent memory, Garion. Well, as it happened, I’d been engaged in some negotiations with Taur Urgas himself before that unfortunate incident. I visited the palace in Rak Goska frequently and met the Lady Tamazin several times. She’s almost certain to remember me— particularly in view of the fact that she said that she knew my father.”
“That could cause some problems,” Belgarath said.
“Not if I avoid her.” Silk shrugged. “Murgo women seldom socialize with men—particularly with strangers—so I don’t imagine we’ll be bumping into each other very often in the next few days. Oskatat could be a different matter, though. I also met him while I was there.”
“I think that, if it’s at all possible, you ought to stay here in our rooms,” the old man suggested. “It might even keep you out of trouble for a change.”
“Why, Belgarath,” Silk said mildly, “what a thing to say.”
“Has King Urgit always been like this?” Durnik asked Sadi. “He seems awfully—well—humorous, I guess the word is. I didn’t think that Murgos even knew how to smile.”
“He’s a very complex fellow,” Sadi replied.
“Have you known him long?”
“He frequently visited Sthiss Tor when he was younger— usually on missions for his father. I think he jumped at any excuse to get out of Rak Goska. He and Salmissra got on rather well together. Of course, that was before Lady Polgara changed her into a snake.” The eunuch rubbed his hand absently over his scalp. “He’s not a very strong king,” he noted. “His childhood in the palace of Taur Urgas made him timid, and he backs away from any sort of confrontation. He’s a survivor, though. He’s spent his entire life just trying to stay alive, and that tends to make a man very alert.”
“You’ll be talking with him again tomorrow,” Belgarath said. “See if you can get him to give you some definite information about this ship they plan to give us. I want to get to the Isle of Verkat before the onset of winter, and various people in our party have been doing things that might attract attention, if we have to stay here too long.” He gave Eriond a reproving look.
“It wasn’t really my fault, Belgarath,” the young man protested mildly. “I didn’t like the fires in the Sanctum, that’s all.”
“Try to keep a grip on your prejudices, Eriond,” the old man said in a faintly sarcastic voice. “Let’s not get sidetracked on these moral crusades just now.”
“I’ll try, Belgarath.”
“I’d appreciate it.”
The next morning, the seneschal, Oskatat, summoned them all to another audience with the Murgo King in a brightly candlelit chamber that was smaller and less garish than the vast throne room. Garion noticed that Silk remained carefully hooded until the gray-haired functionary had left the room. Urgil and Sadi spoke quietly together while the rest of them sat unobtrusively in the chairs lining the wall.
“It was probably the first hint that anyone really had that my father’s brains were starting to come off their hinges,” the Murgo King was saying. He was dressed again in his purple doublet and hose and was sprawled in a chair with his feet thrust out in front of him. “He was suddenly seized with the wild ambition to make himself Overking of Angarak. Personally, I think that Ctuchik planted the notion in his head as a means of irritating Urvon. Anyway,” he continued, twisting the heavy gold ring on one of his fingers, “it took the combined efforts of all his generals to convince my manic father that Zakath’s army was about five times the size of ours and that Zakath could squash him like a bug any time he chose. Once that notion had finally seeped into his head, he went absolutely wild.”
“Oh?” Sadi said.
Urgit grinned. “Threw himself on the floor and started chewing on the carpet. After he calmed down, he decided to try subversion instead. He inundated Mallorea with Murgo agents—and Murgos are probably the clumsiest spies in the world. To keep it short—Zakath was about nineteen at the time and desperately in love with a Melcene girl. Her family was deeply in debt, so my father’s agents bought up all their obligations and started putting pressure on them. The brilliant plan that emerged from my father’s diseased wits was that the girl should encourage the love-struck young Zakath, marry him, and then slip a knife between the imperial ribs at her earliest opportunity. One of the Melcenes these highly intelligent Murgo spies had bought to help them in their scheme ran to Zakath with the whole sordid story, and the girl and her entire family were immediately put to death.”
“What a tragic story,” Sadi murmured.
“You haven’t heard the best part yet. Several of the Murgo spies were persuaded to reveal the whole story— Malloreons tend to be very good persuaders—and Zakath discovered to his horror that the girl had known absolutely nothing about my father’s plan. He locked himself in his room in the palace at Mal Zeth for an entire month. When he went in, he was a pleasant, open young man who showed much promise of becoming one of Mallorea’s greatest emperors. When he came out, he was the cold-blooded monster we all know and love. He rounded up every Murgo in Mallorea—including a fair number of my father’s relatives—and he used to amuse himself by sending bits and pieces of them in ornate containers to Rak Goska, accompanied by highly insulting notes.”
“But didn’t the two of them join forces at the battle of Thull Mardu?’
Urgit laughed. “That may be the popular perception, Sadi, but in point of fact, the Imperial Princess Ce’Nedra’s army was just unlucky enough to get between two opposing Angarak monarchs. They didn’t care a thing about her or about that dungheap people call Mishrak ac Thull. All they were trying to do was kill each other. Then my addled father made the mistake of challenging King Cho-Hag of Algaria to single combat, and Cho-Hag gave him a very pointed lesson in swordsmanship.” He looked thoughtfully into the fire. “I still think I ought to send Cho-Hag some token of appreciation,” he mused.
“Excuse me, your Majesty.” Sadi frowned. “But I don’t altogether understand. Kal Zakath’s quarrel was with your father, and Taur Urgas is dead.”
“Oh yes, quite dead,” Urgit agreed. “I cut his throat before I buried him—just to make sure. I think that Zakath’s problem stems from the fact that he didn’t get the chance to kill my father personally. Failing that, I guess he’s willing to settle for me.” He rose and began to pace moodily up and down. “I’ve sent him a dozen peace overtures, but all he does is send me back the heads of my emissaries. I think he’s as crazy as my father was.” He stopped his restless pacing. “You know, maybe I was a bit hasty on my way to the throne. I had a dozen brothers—all of the blood of Taur Urgas. If I’d kept a few of them alive, I might have been able to give them to Zakath. Perhaps, if he had drunk enough Urga blood, it might have made him lose his taste for it.”
The door opened and a bulky Murgo with an ornate gold chain about his neck entered the room. “I need your signature on this,” he said rudely to Urgit, thrusting a sheet of parchment at him.
“What is it, General Kradak?” Urgit asked meekly.
The officer’s face darkened.
“All right,” Urgit said in a mollifying tone, “don’t get yourself excited.” He took the parchment to a nearby table where a quill pen lay beside a silver ink-pot. He dipped the pen, scribbled his name on the bottom of the sheet, and handed it back.
“Thank you, your Majesty,” General Kradak said in a flat voice. Then he turned on his heel and left the room.
“One of my father’s generals,” Urgit told Sadi sourly. “They all treat me like that.” He began to pace up and down again, scuffing his feet at the carpet. “How much do you know about King Belgarion, Sadi?” he asked suddenly.
The eunuch shrugged. “Well, I’ve met him once or twice.”
“Didn’t you say that most of your servants are Alorns?”
“Alorn mercenaries, yes. They’re dependable and very good to have around if a fight breaks out.”
The Murgo King turned to Belgarath, who sat dozing in a chair. “You—old man,” he said abruptly. “Have you ever met Belgarion of Riva?”
“Several times,” Belgarath admitted calmly.
“What kind of man is he?”
“Sincere,” Belgarath replied. “He tries very hard to be a good king.”
“Just how powerful is he?”
“Well, he has the whole Alorn Alliance to back him up, and technically he’s the Overlord of the West—although the Tolnedrans are likely to go then- own way, and the Arends would rather fight each other.”
“That’s not what I meant. How good a sorcerer is he?”
“Why ask me, your Majesty? Do I look like the kind of man who’d know very much about that sort of thing? He managed to kill Torak, though, and I’d imagine that took a bit of doing.”
“How about Belgarath? Is there really such a person, or is he just a myth?”
“No, Belgarath is a real person.”
“And he’s seven thousand years old?”
“Seven thousand or so.” Belgarath shrugged. “Give or take a few centuries.”
“And his daughter Polgara?”
“She’s also a real person.”
“And she’s thousands of years old?”
“Something like that. I could probably figure it out if I needed to, but a gentleman doesn’t ask questions about a lady’s age.”
Urgit laughed—a short, ugly, barking sound. “The words ‘gentleman’ and ‘Murgo’ are mutually exclusive, my friend,” he said. “Do you think Belgarion would receive my emissaries, if I sent them to Riva?”
“He’s out of the country just now,” Belgarath told him blandly.
“I hadn’t heard that.”
“He does it from time to time. Every so often he gets bored with all the ceremonies and goes away.”
“How does he manage that? How can he just pick up and leave?”
“Who’s going to argue with him?”
Urgit began to gnaw worriedly on one fingernail. “Even if the Dagashi Kabach succeeds in killing Zakath, I’m still going to have a Malloreon army on my doorstep. I’m going to need an ally if I’m ever going to get rid of them.” He began to pace up and down again. “Besides,” he added, “if I can reach an agreement with Belgarion, maybe I’ll be able to get Agachak’s fist off my throat. Do you think he’d listen to a proposal from me?”
“You could ask him and find out, I suppose.”
The door opened again and the Queen Mother, assisted by the girl Praia, entered.
“Good morning, mother,” Urgit greeted her. “Why are you out roaming the halls of this madhouse?”
“Urgit,” she said firmly, “you’d be much more admirable if you stopped trying to make a joke out of everything.”
“It keeps me from brooding about my circumstances,” he told her flippantly. “I’m losing a war, half of my subjects want to depose me and send my head to Zakath on a plate, I’ll be going mad soon, and I think I’m developing a boil on my neck. There are only a few things left for me to laugh about, mother, so please let me enjoy a joke or two while I still can.”
“Why do you keep insisting that you’re going to go mad?”
“Every male in the Urga family for the past five hundred years has gone mad before he reached fifty,” he reminded her. “It’s one of the reasons we make such good kings. Nobody in his right mind would want the throne of Cthol Murgos. Was there anything special you wanted, mother? Or did you just want to enjoy my fascinating companionship?”
She looked around the room. “Which of you gentlemen is married to that little red-haired girl?” she asked.
Garion looked up quickly. “Is she all right, my Lady?”
“Pol, the lady with the white lock at her brow, said that you should come at once. The young woman seems to be in some distress.”
Garion stood up to follow as the Queen Mother started slowly back toward the door. Just before she reached it, she stopped and glanced at Silk, who had pulled up his hood as soon as she had entered. “Why don’t you accompany your friend?” she suggested, “Just for the sake of appearances?”
They went out of the room and on down one of the garish halls of the Drojim to a dark-paneled door guarded by a pair of mail-shirted men-at-arms. One of them opened the door with a respectful bow to Lady Tamazin, and she led them inside. Her quarters were decorated much more tastefully than the rest of the Drojim. The walls were white, and the decor much more subdued. Aunt Pol sat on a low divan, holding the weeping Ce’Nedra in her arms with Velvet standing nearby.
Is she all right?—Garion’s fingers asked quickly.
—I don’t think it’s too serious—Polgara’s hands replied. —A bout of nerves most likely, but I don’t want any of these fits of depression to go on for too long. She still hasn’t fully recovered from her melancholia. See if you can comfort her.—
Garion went to the divan and enclosed Ce’Nedra gently in his arms. She clung to him, still weeping.
“Is the young lady subject to these crying-spells, Pol?” the Queen Mother asked as the two of them took chairs on opposite sides of the cheery fire that danced on the grate.
“Not all that frequently, Tamazin,” Polgara answered. “There’s been a recent tragedy in her family, though, and sometimes her nerves get the best of her.”
“Ah,” Urgit’s mother said. “Could I offer you a cup of tea, Pol? I always find tea in the morning so comforting.”
“Why, thank you, Tamazin. I think that would be very nice.”
Gradually, Ce’Nedra’s weeping subsided, though she still clung tightly to Garion. At last she raised her head and wiped at her eyes with her fingertips. “I’m so very sorry,” she apologized. “I don’t know what came over me.”
“It’s all right, dear,” Garion murmured, his arms still about her shoulders.
She dabbed at her eyes again, using a wispy little handkerchief. “I must look absolutely terrible,” she said with a teary little laugh.
“Moderately terrible, yes,” he agreed, smiling.
“I told you once, dear, that you should never cry in public,” Polgara said to her. “You just don’t have the right coloring for it.”
Ce’Nedra smiled tremulously and stood up. “Perhaps I should go wash my face,” she said. “And then I think I’d like to lie down for a bit.” She turned to Garion. “Thank you for coming,” she said simply.
“Any time you need me,” he replied.
“Why don’t you go with the lady, Praia?” Lady Tamazin suggested.
“Of course,” the slender Murgo Princess agreed, coming quickly to her feet.
Silk had been standing nervously near the door with the hood of his green robe pulled up and his head down to keep his face concealed.
“Oh, do stop that, Prince Kheldar,” the Queen Mother told him after Ce’Nedra and Praia had left the room. “I recognized you last night, so it’s no good your trying to hide your face.”
He sighed and pushed his hood back. “I was afraid you might have,” he said.
“That hood doesn’t hide your most salient feature anyway,” she told him.
“And which feature was that, my Lady?”
“Your nose, Kheldar, that long, sharp, pointed nose that precedes you wherever you go.”
“But it’s such a noble nose, my Lady,” Velvet said with a dimpled smile. “He wouldn’t be nearly the man he is without it.”
“Do you mind?” Silk asked her.
“You do get around, don’t you, Prince Kheldar?” Lady Tamazin said to him. “How long has it been since you left Rak Goska with half of the Murgo army hot on your heels?”
“Fifteen or twenty years, my Lady,” he replied, coming closer to the fire.
“I was sorry to hear that you’d left,” she said. “You’re not a very prepossessing-looking fellow, but your conversation was most entertaining, and there was very little in the way of entertainment in the house of Taur Urgas.”
“You don’t plan to make a general announcement about my identity then, I take it?” he said carefully.
“It’s not my concern, Kheldar.” She shrugged. “Murgo women do not involve themselves in the affairs of men. Over the centuries, we’ve found that it’s safer that way.”
“You’re not upset, then, my Lady?” Garion asked her. “What I mean is I’d heard that Prince Kheldar here accidentally killed the eldest son of Taur Urgas. Didn’t that offend you just a little?”
“It had nothing to do with me,” she replied. “The one Kheldar killed was the child of Taur Urgas’ first wife—an insufferable, toothless hag of the House of Gorut who used to gloat over the fact that she had given birth to the heir apparent and that, as soon as he ascended the throne, she was going to have the rest of us strangled.”
“I’m relieved to hear that you had no particular fondness for the young man,” Silk told her.
“Fondness? He was a monster—just like his father. When he was just a little boy, he used to amuse himself by dropping live puppies into boiling water. The world’s a better place without him.”
Silk assumed a lofty expression. “I always like to perform these little public services,” he declared. “I feel that it’s a gentleman’s civic duty.”
“I thought you said that his death was accidental,” Garion said.
“Well, sort of. Actually, I was trying to stab him in the belly—painful perhaps, but seldom fatal—but he bumped my arm as I made the thrust, and somehow my knife went straight into his heart.”
“What a shame,” Tamazin murmured. “I’d be sort of careful here in the Drojim though, Kheldar. I have no intention of revealing your identity, but the seneschal, Oskatat, also knows you by sight and he would probably feel obliged to denounce you.”
“I’d already guessed as much, my Lady. I’ll try to avoid him.”
“Now tell me, Prince Kheldar, how is your father?”
Silk sighed. “He died, I’m afraid,” he replied sadly, “quite a few years ago. It was rather sudden.”
As chance had it, Garion was looking directly at the Queen Mother’s face as Silk spoke and he saw the momentary flicker of anguish touch her beautiful features. She recovered quickly, though her eyes still brimmed with sorrow. “Ah,” she said very quietly. “I’m sorry, Kheldar—more sorry than you could possibly know. I liked your father very much. The memories of the months he was in Rak Goska are among the happiest of my life.”
To avoid being caught staring, Garion turned his head, and his eyes fell on Velvet, whose expression was faintly speculative. She returned his look, and her eyes conveyed a world of meaning and several unanswered questions.