"Turnips?" Aunt Pol asked in a tone that spoke volumes.
"Yes, great lady, turnips," Silk said solemnly.
"Are we ready, then?" Wolf asked.
"We are," the giant Barak said shortly, rising with his mail shirt clinking.
"We should look the part," Wolf said carefully, eyeing Barak up and down. "Your armor, my friend, is not the sort of garb an honest wagoneer would wear. I think you should change it for stout wool."
Barak's face looked injured.
"I could wear a tunic over it," he suggested tentatively.
"You rattle," Silk pointed out, "and armor has a distinctive fragrance about it. From the downwind side you smell like a rusty ironworks, Barak."
"I feel undressed without a mail shirt," Barak complained.
"We must all make sacrifices," Silk said.
Grumbling, Barak went to one of the wagons, jerked out a bundle of clothes and began to pull off his mail shirt. His linen undertunic bore large, reddish rust stains.
"I'd change tunics as well," Silk suggested. "Your shirt smells as bad as the armor."
Barak glowered at him. "Anything else?" he demanded. "I hope, for decency's sake, you don't plan to strip me entirely."
Silk laughed.
Barak pulled off his tunic. His torso was enormous and covered with thick red hair.
"You look like a rug," Silk observed.
"I can't help that," Barak said. "Winters are cold in Cherek, and the hair helps me to stay warm." He put on a fresh tunic.
"It's just as cold in Drasnia," Silk said. "Are you absolutely sure your grandmother didn't dally with a bear during one of those long winters?"
"Someday your mouth is going to get you into a great deal of trouble, friend Silk," Barak said ominously.
Silk laughed again. "I've been in trouble most of my life, friend Barak."
"I wonder why," Barak said ironically.
"I think all this could be discussed later," Wolf said pointedly. "I'd rather like to be away from here before the week's out, if I can."
"Of course, old friend," Silk said, jumping up. "Barak and I can amuse each other later."
Three teams of sturdy horses were picketed nearby, and they all helped to harness them to the wagons.
"I'll put out the fire," Silk said and fetched two pails of water from a small brook that trickled nearby. The fire hissed when the water struck it, and great clouds of steam boiled up toward the low-hanging tree limbs.
"We'll lead the horses to the edge of the wood," Wolf said. "I'd rather not pick my teeth on a low branch."
The horses seemed almost eager to start and moved without urging along a narrow track through the dark woods. They stopped at the edge of the open fields, and Wolf looked around carefully to see if anyone was in sight.
"I don't see anybody," he said. "Let's get moving."
"Ride with me, good smith," Barak said to Durnik. "Conversation with an honest man is much preferable to a night spent enduring the insults of an over-clever Drasnian."
"As you wish, friend," Durnik said politely.
"I'll lead," Silk said. "I'm familiar with the back roads and lanes hereabouts. I'll put us on the high road beyond Upper Gralt before noon. Barak and Durnik can bring up the rear. I'm sure that between them they can discourage anyone who might feel like following us."
"All right," Wolf said, climbing up onto the seat of the middle wagon. He reached down his hand and helped up Aunt Pol.
Garion quickly climbed up onto the wagon bed behind them, a trifle nervous that someone might suggest that he ride with Silk. It was all very well for Mister Wolf to say that the two they had just met were friends, but the fright he had suffered in the wood was still too fresh in his mind to make him quite comfortable with them.
The sacks of musty-smelling turnips were lumpy, but Garion soon managed to push and shove a kind of half reclining seat for himself among them just behind Aunt Pol and Mister Woif. He was sheltered from the wind, Aunt Pol was close, and his cloak, spread over him, kept him warm. He was altogether comfortable, and, despite the excitement of the night's events, he soon drifted into a half drowse. The dry voice in his mind suggested briefly that he had not behaved too well back in the wood, but it too soon fell silent, and Garion slept.
It was the change of sound that woke him. T'he soft thud of the horses' hooves on the dirt road became a clatter as they came to the cobblestones of a small village sleeping in the last chill hours of the autumn night. Garion opened his eyes and looked sleepily at the tall, narrow houses with their tiny windows all dark.
A dog barked briefly, then retreated back to his warm place under some stairs. Garion wondered what village it might be and how many people slept under those steep-peaked tile roofs, unaware of the passage of their three wagons.
The cobbled street was very narrow, and Garion could almost have reached out and touched the weathered stones of the houses as they passed.
And then the nameless village was behind them, and they were back on the road again. The soft sound of the horses' hooves lured him once more toward sleep.
"What if he hasn't passed through Darine?" Aunt Pol asked Mister Wolf in a low tone.
It occurred to Garion that in all the excitement he had never actually found out exactly what it was that they were seeking. He kept his eyes closed and listened.
"Don't start with the `what ifs,' " Wolf said irritably. "If we sit around saying `what if,' we'll never do anything."
"I was merely asking," Aunt Pol said.
"If he hasn't gone through Darine, we'll turn south - to Muros. He may have joined a caravan there to take the Great North Road to Boktor."
"And if he hasn't gone through Muros?"
"Then we go on to Camaar."
"And then?"
"We'll see when we get to Camaar." His tone was final, as if he no longer wished to discuss the matter.
Aunt Pol drew in a breath as if she were about to deliver some final retort, but apparently she decided against it and settled back instead on the wagon seat.
To the east, ahead of them, the faint stain of dawn touched the lowering clouds, and they moved on through the tattered, windswept end of the long night in their search for something which, though he could not yet even identify it, was so important that Garion's entire life had been uprooted in a single day because of it.
Chapter Seven
IT TOOK THEM FOUR DAYS to reach Darine On the north coast. The first day went quite well, since, though it was cloudy and the wind kept blowing, the air was dry and the roads were good. They passed quiet farmsteads and an occasional farmer bent to his labor in the middle of a field. Inevitably each man stopped his work to watch them pass. Some waved, but some did not.
And then there were villages, clusters of tall houses nestled in valleys. As they passed, the children came out and ran after the wagons, shouting with excitement. The villagers watched, idly curious, until it became obvious that the wagons were not going to stop, and then they sniffed and went back to their own concerns.
As afternoon of that first day lowered toward evening, Silk led them into a grove of trees at the roadside, and they made preparations for the night. They ate the last of the ham and cheese Wolf had filched from Faldor's pantry and then spread their blankets on the ground beneath the wagons. The ground was hard and cold, but the exciting sense of being on some great adventure helped Garion to endure the discomfort.
The next morning, however, it began to rain. It was a fine, misty rain at first, scattering before the wind, but as the morning wore on, it settled into a steady drizzle. The musty smell of the turnips in their wet sacks became stronger, and Garion huddled miserably with his cloak pulled tightly around him. The adventure was growing much less exciting.
The road became muddy and slick, and the horses struggled their way up each hill and had to be rested often. On the first day they had covered eight leagues; after that they were lucky to make five.
Aunt Pol became waspish and short-tempered.
"This is idiocy," she said to Mister Wolf about noon on the third day.
"Everything is idiocy if you choose to look at it in the proper light," he replied philosophically.
"Why wagoneers?" she demanded. "There are faster ways to travels wealthy family in a proper carriage, for instance, or Imperial messengers on good horses - either way would have put us in Darine by now."
"And left a trail in the memories of all these simple people we've passed so wide that even a Thull could follow it," Wolf explained patiently. "Brill has long since reported our departure to his employers. Every Murgo in Sendaria is looking for us by now."
"Why are we hiding from the Murgos, Mister Wolf?" Garion asked, hesitant to interrupt, but impelled by curiosity to try to penetrate the mystery behind their flight. "Aren't they just merchants-like the Tolnedrans and the Drasnians?"
"The Murgos have no real interest in trade," Wolf explained. "Nadraks are merchants, but the Murgos are warriors. The Murgos pose as merchants for the same reason that we pose as wagoneers - so that they can move about more or less undetected. If you simply assumed that all Murgos are spies, you wouldn't be too far from the truth."
"Haven't you anything better to do than ask all these questions?" Aunt Pol asked.
"Not really," Garion said, and then instantly knew that he'd made a mistake.
"Good," she said. "In the back of Barak's wagon you'll find the dirty dishes from this morning's meal. You'll also find a bucket. Fetch the bucket and run to that stream ahead for water, then return to Barak's wagon and wash the dishes."
"In cold water?" he objected.
"Now, Garion," she said firmly.
Grumbling, he climbed down off the slowly moving wagon.
In the late afternoon of the fourth day they came over a high hilltop and saw below the city of Darine and beyond the city the leaden gray sea.
Garion caught his breath. To his eyes the city looked very large. Its surrounding walls were thick and high, and there were more buildings within those walls than he had seen in all his life. But it was to the sea that his eyes were drawn. There was a sharp tang to the air. Faint hints of that smell had been coming to him on the wind for the past league or so, but now, inhaling deeply, he breathed in that perfume of the sea for the first time in his life. His spirit soared.
"Finally," Aunt Pol said.
Silk had stopped the lead wagon and came walking back. His hood was pulled back slightly, and the rain ran down his long nose to drip from its pointed tip.
"Do we stop here or go on down to the city?" he asked.
"We go to the city," Aunt Pol said. "I'm not going to sleep under a wagon when there are inns so close at hand."
"Honest wagoneers would seek out an inn," Mister Wolf agreed, "and a warm taproom."
"I might have guessed that," Aunt Pol said.
"We have to try to look the part." Wolf shrugged.
They went on down the hill, the horses' hooves slipping and sliding as they braced back against the weight of the wagons.
At the city gate two watchmen in stained tunics and wearing rustspotted helmets came out of the tiny watch house just inside the gate.
"What's your business in Darine?" one of them asked Silk.
"I am Ambar of Kotu," Silk lied pleasantly, "a poor Drasnian merchant hoping to do business in your splendid city."
"Splendid?" one of the watchmen snorted.
"What have you in your wagons, merchant?" the other inquired.
"Turnips," Silk said deprecatingly. "My family has been in the spice trade for generations, but I'm reduced to peddling turnips." He sighed. "The world is a topsy-turvy place, is it not, good friend?"
"We're obliged to inspect your wagons," the watchman said. "It'll take some time, I'm afraid."
"And a wet time at that," Silk said, squinting up into the rain. "It would be much more pleasant to devote the time to wetting one's inside in some friendly tavern."
"That's difficult when one doesn't have much money," the watchman suggested hopefully.
"I'd be more than pleased if you'd accept some small token of friendship from me to aid you in your wetting," Silk offered.
"You're most kind," the watchman replied with a slight bow.
Some coins changed hands, and the wagons moved on into the city uninspected.
From the hilltop Darine had looked quite splendid, but Garion found it much less so as they clattered through the wet streets. The buildings all seemed the same with a kind of self important aloofness about them, and the streets were littered and dirty. The salt tang of the sea was tainted here with the smell of dead fish, and the faces of the people hurrying along were grim and unfriendly. Garion's first excitement began to fade.
"Why are the people all so unhappy?" he asked Mister Wolf.
"They have a stern and demanding God," Wolf replied.
"Which God is that?" Garion asked.
"Money," Wolf said. "Money is a worse God than Torak himself."
"Don't fill the boy's head with nonsense," Aunt Pol said. "The people aren't really unhappy, Garion. They're just all in a hurry. They have important affairs to attend to and they're afraid they'll be late. That's all."
"I don't think I'd like to live here," Garion said. "It seems like a bleak, unfriendly kind of place." He sighed. "Sometimes I wish we were all back at Faldor's farm."
"There are worse places than Faldor's," Wolf agreed.
The inn Silk chose for them was near the docks, and the smell of the sea and the rank detritus of the meeting of sea and land was strong there. The inn, however, was a stout building with stables attached and storage sheds for the wagons. Like most inns, the main floor was given over to the kitchen and the large common room with its rows of tables and large fireplaces. The upper floors provided sleeping chambers for the guests.
"It's a suitable place," Silk announced as he came back out to the wagons after speaking at some length with the innkeeper. "The kitchen seems clean, and I saw no bugs when I inspected the sleeping chambers."
"I will inspect it," Aunt Pol said, climbing down from the wagon.
"As you wish, great lady," Silk said with a polite bow.
Aunt Pol's inspection took much longer than Silk's, and it was nearly dark when she returned to the courtyard. "Adequate," she sniffed, "but only barely."
"It's not as if we planned to settle in for the winter, Pol," Wolf said. "At most we'll only be here a few days."
She ignored that.
"I've ordered hot water sent up to our chambers," she announced. "I'll take the boy up and wash him while you and the others see to the wagons and horses. Come along, Garion." And she turned and went back into the inn.
Garion wished fervently that they would all stop referring to him as the boy. He did, after all, he reflected, have a name, and it was not that difficult a name to remember. He was gloomily convinced that even if he lived to have a long gray beard, they would still speak of him as the boy.
After the horses and wagons had been attended to and they had all washed up, they went down again to the common room and dined. The meal certainly didn't match up to Aunt Pol's, but it was a welcome change from turnips. Garion was absolutely certain that he'd never be able to look a turnip in the face again for the rest of his life.
After they had eaten, the men loitered over their ale pots, and Aunt Pol's face registered her disapproval. "Garion and I are going up to bed now," she said to them. "Try not to fall down too many times when you come up."
Wolf, Barak and Silk laughed at that, but Durnik, Garion thought, looked a bit shamefaced.
The next day Mister Wolf and Silk left the inn early and were gone all day. Garion had positioned himself in a strategic place in hopes that he might be noticed and asked to go along, but he was not; so when Durnik went down to look after the horses, he accompanied him instead.
"Durnik," he said after they had fed and watered the animals and the smith was examining their hooves for cuts or stone bruises, "does all this seem stran
ge to you?"
Durnik carefully lowered the leg of the patient horse he was checking.
"All what, Garion?" he asked, his plain face sober.
"Everything," Garion said rather vaguely. "This journey, Barak and Silk, Mister Wolf and Aunt Pol - all of it. They all talk sometimes when they don't think I can hear them. This all seems terribly important, but I can't tell if we're running away from someone or looking for something."
"It's confusing to me as well, Garion," Durnik admitted. "Many things aren't what they seem - not what they seem at all."
"Does Aunt Pol seem different to you?" Garion asked. "What I mean is, they all treat her as if she were a noblewoman or something, and she acts differently too, now that we're away from Faldor's farm."
"Mistress Pol is a great lady," Durnik said. "I've always known that." His voice had that same respectful tone it always had when he spoke of her, and Garion knew that it was useless to try to make Durnik perceive anything unusual about her.
"And Mister Wolf," Garion said, trying another tack. "I always thought he was just an old storyteller."
"He doesn't seem to be an ordinary vagabond," Durnik admitted. "I think we've fallen in with important people, Garion, on important business. It's probably better for simple folk such as you and I not to ask too many questions, but to keep our eyes and ears open."
"Will you be going back to Faldor's farm when this is all over?" Garion asked carefully.
Durnik considered that, looking out across the rainswept courtyard of the inn.
"No," he said finally in a soft voice. "I'll follow as long as Mistress Pol allows me to."
On an impulse Garion reached out and patted the smith's shoulder. "Everything is going to turn out for the best, Durnik."
Durnik sighed.
"Let's hope so," he said and turned his attention back to the horses.
"Durnik," Garion asked, "did you know my parents?"
"No," Durnik said. "The first time I saw you, you were a baby in Mistress Pol's arms."
"What was she like then?"
"She seemed angry," Durnik said. "I don't think I've ever seen anyone quite so angry. She talked with Faldor for a while and then went to work in the kitchen - you know Faldor. He never turned anyone away in his whole life. At first she was just a helper, but that didn't last too long. Our old cook was getting fat and lazy, and she finally went off to live with her youngest daughter. After that, Mistress Pol ran the kitchen."
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