It seemed somehow that Cation’s impatience had communicated itself to Chretienne. The big gray stallion was restive as they left Silk’s house and rode into the street and he flicked his ears in irritation as Garion tried to curb him with the reins. Even the sound of his steel-shod hooves on the cobblestones came as a kind of restless staccato. As Garion leaned forward to lay a calming hand on the arched gray neck, he could feel the nervous quivering of his horse’s muscles under the sleek skin. “I know,” he said. “I feel the same way, but we have to wait until we’re outside the city before we can run.”
Chretienne snorted and then made a plaintive whinnying sound.
“It won’t take that long,” Garion assured him.
They rode in single file through the busy streets with Silk in the lead. The breeze swirling through the streets carried with it the dusty smell of autumn.
“What are all those buildings over there?” Eriond called ahead to Silk. The blond young man pointed toward a large complex of structures that seemed to be set in the center of a lush green park.
“The University of Melcena,” Silk replied. “It’s the largest institution of higher learning in the world.”
“Even bigger than the one in Tol Honeth?” Garion asked.
“Yes, much. The Melcenes study everything. There are branches of learning at that university that the Tolnedrans won’t even admit exist.”
“Oh? Such as what?”
“Applied alchemy, astrology, necromancy, fundamentals of witchcraft, that sort of thing. They’ve even got an entire college devoted to the reading of tea leaves.”
“You’re not serious.”
“I’m not, but they are.”
Garion laughed and rode on.
The streets of Melcena grew even busier, but there was a decorum to the bustle. No matter how urgent his affairs might be, a Melcene businessman was never so preoccupied that he didn’t have time for a friendly chat with one of his competitors. The snatches of conversation Garion heard as they rode along the boulevards ranged in subject from the weather to politics to flower arrangement. The major concentration that morning, however, seemed to be centered on the price of beans.
When they reached the north gate, the great sword strapped across Garion’s back began to pull at him. Despite Silk’s critical look, Garion had decided that he was not going out into the countryside without the sword. Zandramas had a way of leaving traps behind her, and Garion definitely did not want to walk into one of them unprepared. As they passed through the gate, he nudged Chretienne forward to ride beside Silk. “The trail seems to be following this road,” he said, pointing up a broad highway stretching off to the north.
“At least it doesn’t go across open country,” Silk said. “The ground gets a little marshy in spots up here, and I hate to ride through mud.”
Belgarath had said nothing since they had left Silk’s house, but had ridden along with an irritated expression on his face. Now he came forward to join Silk and Garion. He looked around to make sure that none of the local citizens were close enough to overhear what they were saying and then spoke to Garion. “Let’s go over it again—step by step this time. Exactly what did your friend say?”
“Well,” Garion replied, “he started out by saying that all the prophecies are cryptic in order to keep the information out of the wrong hands.”
“That makes a certain amount of sense, Belgarath,” Beldin said from just behind them.
“It might make sense,” Belgarath said, “but it doesn’t make things any easier.”
“Nobody promised you easy.”
“I know. I just wish they’d stop going out of their way to make it difficult. Go ahead, Garion.”
“Then he said that we’re only three days behind Zandramas,” Garion told him.
“That means that she’s left the island,” Silk noted.
“How did you arrive at that conclusion?” Belgarath asked.
“Melcena’s a big island, but not that big. You can ride from one end of it to the other in two days. She might have gone on to one of the northern islands, but if we’re three days behind her, she isn’t on this one any more.”
Belgarath grunted. “What else did he say?” he asked Garion.
“He said that there’s something else we have to do here— besides finding the trail, I mean.”
“I gather he wasn’t very specific.”
“No. He explained why not, though. He said if he told me what it was, the other prophecy could tell Zandramas certain things she didn’t know yet. That’s when he told me that she doesn’t know where the Place Which Is No More is, and that the location’s not in the Ashabine Oracles.”
“Did he give you any clues at all about this task of ours?”
“Only that somebody’s going to say something to us today that’s very important.”
“Who?”
“He wouldn’t tell me. All he said was that somebody was going to say something in passing that we shouldn’t miss. He said that we should be alert for that kind of thing.”
“Anything else?”
“No. That’s when he left.”
The old man started to swear.
“I felt pretty much the same way myself,” Garion agreed.
“He’s done as much as he can, Belgarath,” Beldin said. “The rest is up to us.”
Belgarath made a wry face. “I suppose you’re right.”
“Of course I’m right. I’m always right.”
“I wouldn’t go that far. Well, first things first, I guess. Let’s find out where Zandramas went. Then we can start analyzing every casual remark we hear.” He turned in his saddle. “Keep your ears open today, all of you.” Then he nudged his mount into a trot.
A rider in sober blue galloped past, going toward the city with uncharacteristic haste. Silk began to laugh after the man had passed them.
“Who was that?” Durnik asked.
“A member of the Consortium,” Silk replied gaily. “It appears that Viscount Esca’s called an emergency session. “
“Is this something I ought to know about?” Belgarath asked.
“Not unless you’re interested in the market price of beans.”
“Will you keep your mind on what we’re here for and stop playing?”
“It was sort of necessary, Grandfather,” Garion came to his friend’s defense. “The Viscount stopped us in the street while we were looking for the trail. He’d have talked all day if Silk hadn’t sent him off on a fool’s errand.”
“Did he say anything at all that might be what we’re looking for?”
“No. He just talked about beans.”
“Did you meet anybody else today? Share these little encounters with us, Garion.”
“We ran into one of Brador’s secret policemen. I’d imagine that his messenger is already on the way to Mal Zeth.”
“Did he say anything?”
“He made a few veiled threats, is all. I guess Emperor Zakath’s a little unhappy with us. The policeman recognized me, but I suppose that’s only natural. Silk was going to kill him, but I said no.”
“Why?” Beldin asked bluntly.
“We were in the middle of a busy street for one thing. Killing somebody’s the sort of thing you ought to do in private, wouldn’t you say?”
“You were a much nicer boy before you developed this clever mouth,” Beldin snapped.
Garion shrugged. “Nothing ever stays the same, uncle.”
“Be polite, Garion,” Polgara called from behind.
“Yes, ma’am.”
A black carriage rattled by. The team of white horses drawing it was moving at a dead run and they were flecked with foam.
“Another bean buyer?” Belgarath asked.
Silk smirked and nodded.
Durnik had been looking around. “I don’t see any signs that this land is being farmed,” he said.
Silk laughed. “Land in Melcena’s too valuable to be wasted on farming, Durnik. The people here import all their food from the mainland. About all we’ll find out here are the estates of the very wealthy—retired businessmen, nobles, that sort of thing. The whole countryside’s one huge park. Even the mountains have been landscaped.”
“That doesn’t seem very practical,” Durnik said disapprovingly.
“The people who live on the estates spent a great deal of money for them, so I guess they can do what they like with the land.”
“It still seems wasteful.”
“Of course it is. That’s what rich people do best—waste things.”
The green hills to the north of the city were gently rolling and were dotted with artistically placed groves of trees. Many of the trees had been carefully pruned to accentuate their pleasing shapes. Garion found this tampering with nature somehow offensive. It appeared that he was not alone in this feeling. Ce’Nedra rode with a stiff look of disapproval on her face and frequently made little sounds of disgust, usually at the sight of a well-trimmed oak tree.
They moved into a canter, following the trail north along a road surfaced with gleaming white gravel. The road curved gently from hillside to hillside and in level spots it frequently made wide bends, evidently for no other purpose than to relieve the monotony of long straight stretches. The houses set far back from the road were universally constructed of marble and were usually surrounded by parks and gardens. It was a sunny autumn day, and the prevailing breeze carried with it the smell of the sea, a smell Garion found very familiar. He suddenly felt a sharp pang of homesickness for Riva.
As they cantered past one estate, a large number of gaily dressed people crossed the road ahead of them at a gallop, chasing after a pack of barking dogs. The people jumped fences and ditches with what appeared to be reckless abandon.
“What are they doing?” Eriond called to Silk.
“Fox hunting.”
“That doesn’t really make any sense, Silk,” Durnik objected. “If they don’t farm, they don’t raise chickens. Why are they worried about foxes?”
“It makes even less sense in view of the fact that the fox isn’t native to these islands. They have to be imported.”
“That’s ridiculous!”
“Of course it is. Rich people are always ridiculous, and their sports are usually exotic—and often cruel.”
Beldin gave an ugly little chuckle. “I wonder how sporting they’d find chasing a pack of Algroths—or maybe an Eldrak or two.”
“Never mind,” Belgarath told him.
“It wouldn’t really take much effort to raise a few, Belgarath,” The hunchback grinned. “Or maybe some Trolls,” he mused. “Trolls are great fun, and I’d love to see the look on the face of one of those overdressed butterflies when he jumped a fence and came face to face with a full-grown Troll.”
“Never mind,” Belgarath repeated.
The road forked at one point, and the Orb pulled toward the left. “She’s headed toward the ocean again,” Silk noted. “I wonder what it is that makes her so fond of water. She’s been hopping from island to island ever since we started out after her.”
“Maybe she knows that the Orb can’t follow her over water,” Garion said.
“I don’t think that would be her major concern at this point,” Polgara disagreed. “Time’s running out—for her as well as us. She doesn’t have the leisure for side trips.”
The road they were following led down toward the cliffs, and finally the Orb pulled Garion onto a long, paved drive that curved down toward an imposing house set at the very edge of a precipitous drop and overlooking the ocean far below. As they rode toward the house, Garion loosened his sword in its scabbard.
“Expecting trouble?” Silk asked.
“I just like to be ready,” Garion replied. “That’s a big house up ahead, and a lot of people could be hiding inside.”
The men who came out of the cliff-top villa, however, were not armed and they were all garbed in purple livery. “May I ask your business?” one of them asked. He was tall and thin and had an imposing mane of snowy white hair. He carried himself with an air of self-importance, that kind of air usually assumed by senior servants accustomed to ordering grooms and maids about.
Silk pushed forward. “My friends and I have been out for a morning ride,” he said, “and we were struck by the beauty of this house and its location. Is the owner about perhaps?”
“His Lordship, the Archduke, is away at present,” the tall man replied.
“What a shame,” Silk said. He looked around. “I’m really taken with this place,” he said. Then he laughed. “Maybe it’s as well that he’s not at home. If he were, I might be tempted to make him an offer for his house.”
“I don’t know that his Grace would be very interested,” the servant said.
“I don’t believe I know his Grace,” Silk said artfully. “Do you suppose you could tell me his name?”
“He’s the Archduke Otrath, sir,” the servant answered, puffing himself up slightly. “He’s a member of the imperial family.”
“Oh?”
“He’s the third cousin—twice removed—of his Imperial Majesty, Kal Zakath.”
“Really? What an amazing thing. I’m so sorry to have missed him. I’ll tell his Majesty that I stopped by the next time I see him, though.”
“You know his Majesty?”
“Oh, yes. We’re old friends.”
“Might I ask your name, honored sir?”
“Oh, sorry. How very stupid of me. I’m Prince Kheldar of Drasnia.”
“The Prince Kheldar?”
“I certainly hope there aren’t any others.” Silk laughed. “I can get into enough trouble all by myself.”
“His Grace will be very sorry to have missed you, your Highness.”
“I’ll be in Melcena for several weeks,” Silk said. “Perhaps I can call again. When do you expect his Grace to return?”
“That’s very hard to say, your Highness. He left not three days ago with some people from the mainland.” The white-haired servant paused thoughtfully. “If you and your friends wouldn’t mind waiting for a few moments, Prince Kheldar, I’ll go advise her Grace, the Archduke’s wife, that you’re here. Her Grace has so few visitors out here, and she loves company. Won’t you please come inside? I’ll go to her at once and tell her that you’re here.”
They dismounted and followed him into a broad entry-way. He bowed rather stiffly and went off down a corridor lined with tapestries.
“Very smooth, Kheldar,” Velvet murmured admiringly.
“They don’t call me Silk for nothing,” he said, polishing his ring on the front of his pearl-gray doublet.
When the tall servant returned, he had a slightly pained look on his face. “Her Grace is a bit indisposed at the moment, your Highness,” he apologized to Silk.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Silk replied with genuine regret. “Perhaps another time, then.”
“Oh, no, your Highness. Her Grace insists on seeing you, but please forgive her if she seems a bit—ah—disoriented.
One of Silk’s eyebrows shot up.
“It’s the isolation, your Highness,” the servant confided, looking embarrassed. “Her Grace is not happy in this somewhat bucolic locale, and she’s resorted to a certain amount of reinforcement in her exile.”
“Reinforcement?”
“I trust I can count on your Highness’ discretion?”
“Of course.”
“Her Grace takes some wine from time to time, your Highness, and this appears to be one of those times. I’m afraid she’s had a bit more than is really good for her.”
“This early in the morning?”
“Her Grace does not keep what one might call regular hours. If you’ll come with me, please.”
As they followed the servant down a long corridor, Silk murmured back over his shoulder to the rest of them. “Follow my lead on this,” he said. “Just smile and try not to look too startled at what I say.”
“Don’t you just love it when he gets devious?” Velvet said admiringly to Ce’Nedra.
The archduchess was a lady in her mid-thirties. She had luxurious dark hair and very large eyes. She had a pouting lower lip and an ever-so-slightly overgenerous figure which filled her burgundy gown to the point of overflowing. She was also as drunk as a lord. She had discarded her goblet and now drank directly from a decanter. “Prince Kheldar,” She hiccupped, trying to curtsy. Sadi moved sinuously to catch her arm to prevent a disaster.
“ ‘Scuse me,” she slurred to him. “So nice of you.”
“My pleasure, your Grace,” the eunuch said politely.
She blinked at him several times. “Are you really bald-or is that an affectation?”
“It’s a cultural thing, your Grace,” he explained, bowing.
“How disappointing,” she sighed, rubbing her hand over his head and taking another drink from the decanter. “Could I offer you all something to drink?” she asked brightly.
Most of them declined with faint headshakes. Beldin, however, stumped forward with his hand extended. “Why not?” the grotesque little man said. “Let’s try a rip of that, me girl.” For some reason he had lapsed into Feldegast’s brogue.
Belgarath rolled his eyes ceiling ward.
The archduchess laughed uproariously and passed over the decanter.
Beldin drained it without stopping for breath. “Very tasty,” he belched, tossing the decanter negligently into a corner, “but ale’s me preference, y’r Ladyship. Wine’s hard on the stomach so early of a morning.”
“Ale it shall be, then,” she crowed happily. “We’ll all sit around and swill ourselves into insensibility.” She fell back on a couch, exposing a great deal of herself in the process. “Bring ale,” she commanded the embarrassed servant, “lots and lots of ale.”
“As your Grace commands,” the tall man replied stiffly, withdrawing.
“Nice enough fellow,” the archduchess slurred, “but he’s so terribly stuffy sometimes. He absolutely refuses to take a drink with me.” Her eyes suddenly filled with tears. “Nobody wants to drink with me,” she complained. She held out her arms imploringly to Beldin, and he enfolded her in an embrace. “You understand, don’t you, my friend?” she sobbed, burying her face in his shoulder.
“Of course I do,” he said, patting her shoulder. “There, there, me little darlin’,” he said, “ ‘twill all be right again soon.”
The noblewoman regained her composure, sniffed loudly, and fished for a handkerchief. “It’s not that I want to be like this, your Highness,” she apologized, trying to focus her eyes on Silk. “It’s just that I’m so absolutely bored out here. Otrath has all the social grace of an oyster, so he’s imprisoned me out here in the hinterlands with nothing but the booming of the surf and the screeching of gulls for company. I so miss the balls and the dinner parties and the conversation in Melcena. What am I to do with myself out here?”
“ ‘Tis cruel hard, me darlin’,” Beldin agreed. He took the small cask of ale the servant cringingly brought, placed it between his knees, and bashed in the top with his gnarled fist. “Would ye care fer a sup, sweeting?” he asked the duchess politely, holding out the cask.
“I’d drown if I tried to drink out of that,” she protested with a silly little laugh.
“Right y’ are,” he agreed. “You there,” he said to Belgarath. “Get the poor girl a cup or somethin’.”
Belgarath scowled at his gnarled brother, then wordlessly fetched a silver tankard from a sideboard.
Beldin dipped deeply into the cask with the tankard, swiped off the bottom with his sleeve, and offered it to their hostess. “To yer good health, me darlin’,” he said, drinking from the cask.
“You’re so kind,” she hiccupped. Then she drained off about half the tankard with foamy ale spilling out of the comers of her mouth and down the front of her gown.
“We were very sorry to have missed his Grace,” Silk said, obviously a little nonplussed by Beldin’s rough-and-ready approach to a highborn, though tipsy, lady.
“You didn’t miss a thing, your Highness,” she burped, politely covering her mouth. “My husband’s a fat green toad with all the charm of a dead rat. He spends his time trying to decipher his proximity to the imperial throne. Kal Zakath has no heir, so all the imperial cousins sit around waiting for one another to die and trying to cement alliances. Have you ever been in Mal Zetn, your Highness? It’s an absolutely ghastly place. Frankly, imperial crown or no, I’d sooner live in Hell.” She drained her tankard and handed it wordlessly back to Beldin. Then she looked around brightly, her eyes slightly unfocused. “But my dear Prince “Kheldar,” she said, “you haven’t introduced me to your friends as yet.”
“How terribly forgetful of me, your Grace,” he exclaimed, slapping his hand to his forehead. He rose formally to his feet. “Your Grace, I have the honor to present her Grace, the Duchess of Erat.” He held his hand out grandly to Polgara, who rose and curtsied.
“Your Grace,” she murmured.
“Your Grace,” the archduchess replied, trying to rise, but not quite succeeding.
“There, there, me darlin’,” Beldin said, pressing down on her shoulder to keep her more or less in place. “ Tis early, an’ we’re all friends. There’s no need at all fer us t’ be goin’ through all these tiresome formalities.”
“I like him,” the noblewoman said, pointing at Beldin with one hand and dipping out more ale with the other. “Can I keep him?”
“Sorry, your Grace,” Belgarath said. “We might need him later on.”
“So grim a face,” she observed, looking at the ancient sorcerer. She grinned roguishly. “I’ll wager I could make you smile.”
Silk rushed on. “Her Highness, Princess Ce’Nedra of the House of Borune,” he said, “and the Margravine Liselle of Drasnia. The young man with the sword is known as the Lord of the Western Sea—an obscure title, I’ll grant you, but his people are an obscure sort of folk.” Garion bowed deeply to the tipsy archduchess.
“So great a sword you have, my Lord,” she said.
“It’s a family heirloom, your Grace,” he replied. “I’m more or less obliged to carry it.”
“The others have no titles they care to acknowledge,” Silk said. “They’re business associates, and we don’t worry about titles where money is concerned.”
“Do you have a title?” the lady asked Beldin.
“Several, me little darlin’,” he replied in an offhand way, “but none from any land ye’d be recognizin’ the name of— most of ‘em havin’ disappeared long ago.” He raised the cask again and drank noisily.
“What a dear little man you are,” she said in a smoldering sort of voice.
“ ‘Tis me charm, darlin’,” he replied with a resigned sort of sigh. “ ‘Tis always been me bane, this charmin’ quality about me. Sometimes I must actually hide myself t’ keep off the maids overpowered with unreasonin’ passion.” He sighed again, then belched.
“We might want to talk about that one of these days,” she suggested.
Silk was obviously out of his depth here. “Ah—” he said lamely, “—as I was saying, we’re sorry to have missed the archduke.”
“I can’t for the life of me think why, your Highness,” the lady said bluntly. “My husband’s an unmitigated ass, and he doesn’t bathe regularly. He has wild aspirations about the imperial throne and very little in the way of prospects in that direction.” She held out her tankard to Beldin. “Would you, dear?”
He squinted down into the cask. “It could just be that we’ll need another, me darlin’,” he suggested.
“I’ve got a cellar full,” she sighed happily. “We can go ;on like this for days, if you’d like.”
Belgarath and Beldin exchanged a long look. “Never mind,” Belgarath said.
“But-”
“Never mind.”
“You were saying that your husband has imperial ambitions, your Grace,” Silk floundered on.
“Can you imagine that idiot as emperor of Mallorea?” She sneered. “Half the time he can’t even get his shoes on the right feet. Fortunately, he’s a long way down the line of succession.”
Garion suddenly remembered something. “Has anyone ever suggested anything to him that might have encouraged these ambitions?” he asked.
“I certainly didn’t,” she declared. She frowned blearily sat the far wall. “Now that you mention it, though, there was a fellow who came through here a few years ago—a fellow with white eyes. Have you ever seen anybody with eyes like that? It makes your blood run cold. Anyway, he and the archduke went off to my husband’s study to talk.” She snorted derisively. “Study! I don’t think my idiot husband can even read. He can barely talk to me, but he calls the room his study. Isn’t that absurd? Well, at any rate, that happened at a time when I was still curious about the oaf’s affairs. I’d had one of the footmen drill a hole through the wall so I could watch—and hear—what the fool was up to.” Her lower lip began to tremble. “Not long after that, I saw him in there with the upstairs maid.” She threw her arms out tragically, sloshing ale on Beldin. “Betrayed!” she cried. “In my own house!”
“What were they talking about?” Garion asked her gently. “Your husband and the white-eyed man, I mean?”
“White-eyes told my husband that somebody named Zandramas could guarantee him succession to the throne in Mal Zeth. That name sounds familiar for some reason. Has anybody ever heard it before?” She looked around, trying to focus her eyes.
“Not that I recall,” Silk lied blandly. “Have you ever seen this white-eyed man again?”
The archduchess was busily trying to dip the last bit of ale out of the cask. “What?” she asked.
“The white-eyed man,” Belgarath said impatiently. “Did he ever come back?”
“Of course.” The lady leaned back and lustily drained her tankard. “He was here just a few days ago. He came here with some woman in a black satin robe and a little boy.” She belched modestly. “Could you give that bellpull over there a bit of a jerk, my twisted little friend?” she asked Beldin. “I think we’ve used up all of this cask, and I’m still sort of thirsty.”
“I’ll see to it at once, me darlin’!” The hunchback stumped to the bellpull.
“It’s so very nice to have friends about,” the archduchess said dreamily. Then her head drooped to one side and she began to snore.
“Wake her up, Pol,” Belgarath said.
“Yes, father.”
It was a very light surge, but the tipsy noblewoman’s eyes popped open immediately. “Where was I?” she asked.
“Ah—you were telling us about the visit of the white-eyed man a few days back, your Grace,” Silk supplied.
“Oh, yes. He came in about dusk—him and that hag in black satin.”
“Hag?” Silk asked.
“She must have been a hag. She went to a lot of trouble to keep her face covered. The little boy was adorable, though—reddish-blond curls and the bluest eyes you ever saw. I got some milk for him, because he was hungry. Anyway, White-eyes and the hag went off along with my husband, and then they all took horses and rode off. The toad, my husband, told me that he was going to be gone for a while and that I should send for my dressmaker—something about a gown suitable for an imperial coronation. I forget exactly.”
“What happened to the little boy?” Ce’Nedra asked in a very tense voice.
The archduchess shrugged. “Who knows? As far as I know, they did take him with them.” She sighed. “I’m suddenly so sleepy,” she murmured.
“Did your husband give you any hint about where they were going?” Silk asked her.
She waved her hands helplessly. “I stopped listening to him years ago,” she said. “We have a small yacht in a cove about a mile from here. It’s gone, so I think they took that. My husband was saying something about those commercial wharves south of the city.” She looked around. “Has that other cask of ale got here yet?” she asked drowsily.
“ ‘Twill only be a moment or two, me darlin’,” Beldin assured her in a gentle voice.
“Oh, good.”
“You need anything more?” Silk quietly asked Belgarath.
“I don’t think so.” The old man turned to his daughter. “Put her to sleep again, Pol,” he said.
“There’s no need, father,” she replied. She looked rather sadly at the lush-bodied noblewoman, who had once again wrapped her arms about Beldin’s neck, burrowed her face into his shoulder, and was lightly snoring. Gently, the dwarfed hunchback disengaged her arms and laid her softly on the couch. He straightened her gown, then crossed the room, picked up a comforter from a divan, returned, and covered her with it. “Sleep well, my Lady,” he murmured, touching her face with one sad hand. Then he turned and glared pugnaciously at Belgarath. “Well?” he demanded in the tone of a man ready to fight.
“I didn’t say anything,” Belgarath said to him.
Wordlessly, Ce’Nedra rose, went to the hideous little man, embraced him, and kissed him on the cheek.
“What was that all about?” he asked suspiciously.
“I didn’t say anything either,” she replied, absently picking a few pieces of straw out of his beard and handing them to him.