"Well—if you're sure, Pol."
"I'm certain, dear," she said, laying her hand fondly on his and kissing his cheek.
After breakfast, Garion pulled on a cloak and went out on deck. He stood squinting up into the drizzle for a few minutes, then turned as he heard the companionway door open behind him. Durnik and Toth emerged with fishing poles in their hands. "It only stands to reason, Toth," Durnik was saying. "With that much water, there almost have to be fish."
Toth nodded, then made a peculiar gesture, extending both his arms out as if measuring something.
"I don't quite follow you."
Toth made the gesture again.
"Oh, I'm sure they wouldn't be all that big," the smith disagreed. "Fish don't get that big, do they?"
Toth nodded vigorously.
"I don't mean to doubt you," Durnik said seriously, "but I'd have to see that."
Toth shrugged,
"Quite a beautiful morning, isn't it, Garion?" Durnik said, smiling up at the dripping sky. Then he went up the three steps to the aft deck, nodded pleasantly to the steersman at the tiller, and then made a long, smooth cast out into the frothy wake. He looked critically at his trailing lure. "I think we're going to need some weight on the lines to hold them down, don't you?" he said to Toth.
The giant smiled slightly, then nodded his agreement.
"Have Silk and Urgit managed to get up yet?" Garion called to them.
"Hmm?" Durnik replied, his eyes fixed intently on his brightly colored lure bobbing far back in their wake.
"I said, are Silk and his brother up yet?"
"Oh—yes, I think I heard them stirring around in their cabin. Toth, we're definitely going to need something to weight down the lines."
Belgarath came up on deck just then, with his shabby old cloak pulled tightly around his shoulders. He looked sourly out through the drizzle at the half-concealed coast sliding by to port and went forward to stand amidships.
Garion joined him there. "How long do you think it's going to take us to get to Verkat, Grandfather?" he asked.
"A couple of weeks," the old man replied, "if this weather doesn't get any worse. We're a long way south and we're coming up on the stormy season."
"There's a faster way, though, isn't there?" Garion suggested.
"I don't quite follow you."
"You remember how we got from Jarviksholm to Riva? Couldn't you and I do it that way? The others could catch up later."
"I don't think we're supposed to. I think the others are supposed to be with us when we catch up with Zandramas."
Garion suddenly banged his fist on the rail in frustration. "Supposed to!" he burst out. "I don't care about what we're supposed to do. I want my son back. I'm tired of creeping around trying to satisfy all the clever little twists and turns of the Prophecy. What's wrong with just ignoring it and going right straight to the point?"
Belgarath's face was calm as he looked out at the rust-colored cliffs half-hidden in the gray drizzle. "I've tried that a few times myself," he admitted, "but it never worked— and usually it put me even further behind. I know you're impatient, Garion, and sometimes it's hard to accept the idea that following the Prophecy is really the fastest way to get where you want to go, but that's the way it always seems to work out." He put his hand on Garion's shoulder. "It's sort of like digging a well. The water's at the bottom, but you have to start at the top. I don't think anybody's ever had much luck digging a well from the bottom up."
"What's that got to do with it, Grandfather? I don't see any connection at all."
"Maybe you will if you think about it for a while."
Durnik came running forward. His eyes were wide in stunned amazement, and his hands were shaking.
"What's wrong?" Belgarath asked him.
"That was the biggest fish I've ever seen in my life!" the smith exclaimed. "He was as big as a horse!"
"He got away, I take it."
"Snapped my line on the second jump." Durnik's voice had a peculiar pride in it, and his eyes grew very bright. "He was beautiful, Belgarath. He came up out of the water as if he'd just been shot out of a catapult and he actually walked across the waves on his tail. What a tremendous fish!"
"What are you going to do?"
"I'm going to catch him, of course—but I'm going to need a stouter line—maybe even a rope. What a fish! Excuse me." He hurried toward the bow to talk to the Murgo ship captain about some rope.
Belgarath smiled. "I love that man, Garion," he said. "I really love him."
The door to the aft companionway opened again, and Silk and his brother emerged. Although Garion was usually the first one on deck, he had noticed that, sooner or later during the course of any day, everyone came out to take a turn or two in the bracing salt air.
The two weasel-faced men came forward along the rain-slick deck. Neither of them looked particularly well. "Are we making any headway?" Silk asked. His face was pale, and his hands were trembling noticeably.
"Some," Belgarath grunted. "You two slept late this morning."
"I think we should have slept longer," Urgit replied with a mournful look. "I seem to have this small headache—in my left eye." He was sweating profusely, and there was a faint greenish cast to his skin. "I feel absolutely dreadful," he declared. "Why didn't you warn me about this, Kheldar?"
"I wanted to surprise you."
"Is it always like this the next morning?"
"Usually," Silk admitted. "Sometimes it's worse."
"Worse? How could it possibly get any worse? Excuse me." Urgit hurried to the rail and leaned over it, retching noisily.
"He's not handling this too well, is he?" Belgarath noted clinically.
"Inexperience," Silk explained.
"I honestly believe I'm going to die," Urgit said weakly, wiping at his mouth with a shaking hand. "Why did you let me drink so much?"
"That's a decision a man has to make for himself," Silk told him.
"You seemed to be having a good time," Garion added.
"I really wouldn't know. I've lost track of several hours. What did I do?"
"You were singing."
"Singing? Me?" Urgit sank onto a bench and dropped his face into his trembling hands. "Oh dear," he moaned. "Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear."
Praia came out of the aft door wearing a black coat and a smug little smile. She carried a pair of tankards forward through the drizzle to the two suffering men. "Good morning, my Lords," she said brightly with a little curtsey. "Lady Polgara says that you're to drink this."
"What's in it?" Urgit asked suspiciously.
"I'm not sure, your Majesty. She and the Nyissan mixed it up."
"Maybe it's poison," he said hopefully. "I would sort of like to die quickly and get it over with." He seized a tankard and gulped it down noisily. Then he shuddered, and his face went deathly pale. His expression was one of sheer horror, and he began to shake violently. "That's terrible!" he gasped.
Silk watched him closely for a moment, then took the other tankard and carefully dumped it out over the side.
"Aren't you going to drink yours?" Urgit asked accusingly.
"I don't think so. Polgara has a peculiar sense of humor sometimes. I'd rather not take any chances—until I see how many fish come floating to the top."
"How are you feeling this morning, your Majesty?" Praia asked the suffering Urgit with a feigned look of sympathy on her face.
"I'm sick."
"It's your own fault, you know."
"Please don't."
She smiled sweetly at him.
"You're enjoying this, aren't you?" he accused.
"Why, yes, your Majesty," she replied with a little toss of her head, "As a matter of fact, I am." Then she took the two tankards and went back along the rail toward the stern.
"Are they all like that?" Urgit asked miserably. "So cruel?"
"Women?" Belgarath shrugged. "Of course. It's in their blood."
Somewhat later that gloomy morning, after Silk and B
elgarath had returned aft to seek refuge from the weather in one of the cabins and also, Garion suspected, for a touch of something to ward off the chill, Urgit sat miserably on a rain-wet bench with his head in his hands while Garion moodily paced the deck not far away. "Belgarion," the Murgo King said plaintively, "do you have to stamp your feet so hard?"
Garion gave him a quick, amused smile. "Silk really should have warned you about this," he said.
"Why do people call him Silk?"
"It's a nickname he picked up from his colleagues in Drasnian Intelligence."
"Why would a member of the Drasnian royal family want to be a spy?"
"It's their national industry."
"Is he really any good at it?"
"He's just about the best there is."
Urgit's face had definitely grown green. "This is dreadful," he groaned. "I can't be sure if it's the drink or seasickness. I wonder if I'd feel better if I stuck my head in a bucket of water."
"Only if you held it down long enough."
"That's a thought." Urgit laid his head back on the rail to let the rain drizzle into his face. "Belgarion," he said finally, "what am I doing wrong?"
"You drank a little too much."
"That's not what I'm talking about. Where am I making my mistakes—as a king, I mean?"
Garion looked at him. The little man was obviously sincere, and the sympathy for him which had welled up back in Rak Urga rose again. Garion finally admitted to himself that he liked this man. He drew in a deep breath and sat down beside the suffering Urgit. "You know part of it already," he said. "You let people bully you."
"It's because I'm afraid, Belgarion. When I was a boy, I let them bully me because it kept them from killing me. I guess it just got to be a habit."
"Everybody's afraid."
"You aren't. You faced Torak at Cthol Mishrak, didn't you?"
"It wasn't altogether my idea—and believe me, you can't even begin to guess how frightened I was when I was on my way there for that meeting."
"You?"
"Oh, yes. You're beginning to get some control over that problem, though. You handled that general—Kradak, wasn't it?—fairly well back at the Drojim. Just keep remembering that you're the king, and that you're the one who gives the orders."
"I can try, I guess. What else am I doing wrong?"
Garion thought about it. "You're trying to do it all yourself," he replied finally. "Nobody can do that. There are just too many details for one man to keep up with. You need help—good, honest help."
"Where am I going to find good help in Cthol Murgos? Whom can I trust?"
"You trust Oskatat, don't you?"
"Well, yes, I suppose so."
"That's a start, then. You see, Urgit, what's happening is that you've got people in Rak Urga who are making decisions that you should, be making. They're taking it upon themselves to do that because you've been too afraid or too busy with other things to assert your authority."
"You're being inconsistent, Belgarion. First you say that I should get some people to help me, then you turn around and tell me that I shouldn't let other people make my decisions."
"You weren't listening. The people who are making your decisions for you aren't the people you might have chosen. They've just stepped in on their own. In a lot of cases, you probably don't even know who they are. That simply won't work. You have to choose your people rather carefully. Their first qualification has to be ability. Right behind that comes personal loyalty to you—and to your mother."
"Nobody's loyal to me, Belgarion. My subjects despise me."
"You might be surprised. I don't think there's any question about Oskatat's loyalty—or his ability. That's probably a good place to start. Let him pick your administrators. They'll start out by being loyal to him, but in time they'll come to respect you as well."
"I hadn't even considered that. Do you think it might work?"
"It won't hurt to try. To be perfectly honest with you, my friend, you've made a mess of things. It's going to take you a while to straighten them out, but you've got to start somewhere."
"You've given me quite a bit to think about, Belgarion." Urgit shivered and looked around. "It's really miserable out here," he said. "Where did Kheldar go?"
"Back inside. I think he's trying to get well."
"You mean that there's actually something that will cure this?"
"Some Alorns recommend some more of what made you sick in the first place."
Urgit's face went pale. "More?" he said in a horrified voice. "How can they?"
"Alorns are notoriously brave people."
Urgit's eyes grew suspicious. "Wait a minute," he said. "Wouldn't that just make me feel exactly the same way tomorrow morning?"
"Probably, yes. That could explain why Alorns are usually so foul-tempered when they first get up."
"That's stupid, Belgarion."
"I know. Murgos don't have an absolute monopoly on stupidity." Garion looked at the shivering man. "I think you'd better go inside, Urgit," he advised. "You don't want a chill, on top of all your other problems."
The rain let up by late afternoon. The Murgo captain looked up at the still-threatening sky and then at the cliffs and the jagged reefs jutting out of the turbulent water and prudently ordered his crew to lower the sails and drop the anchor.
Durnik and Toth rather regretfully rolled up their stout fishing lines and stood looking proudly at the dozen or so gleaming silver fish lying on the deck at their feet.
Garion drifted back to where they stood and looked admiringly at their catch. "Not bad," he said.
Durnik carefully measured the biggest fish with his hands. "About three feet," he said, "but they're minnows compared to the big one that got away."
"It always seems to work out that way," Garion said. "Oh," he added, "one thing, Durnik. I'd clean them before I showed them to Aunt Pol. You know how she feels about that."
Durnik sighed. "You're probably right," he agreed.
That evening, after they had all dined on some of the catch, they sat around the table in the aft cabin conversing idly.
"Do you think Agachak's caught up with Harakan yet?" Durnik asked Belgarath.
"I sort of doubt it," the old man replied. "Harakan's tricky. If Beldin couldn't catch him, I don't think Agachak's going to have much luck either."
"Lady Polgara," Sadi suddenly protested in a tone of outrage, "make her stop that."
"What's that, Sadi?"
"The Margravine Liselle. She's subverting my snake."
Velvet, with a mysterious little smile on her face, was delicately feeding Zith fish eggs taken from one of the large fish Durnik and Toth had caught. The little green snake was purring contentedly and was half-raised in anticipation of the next morsel.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The wind came up during the night, a raw, gusty wind, smelling strongly of dusty old ice, and the drizzle which had fallen for most of the previous day turned to sleet that rattled in the rigging and clattered on the deck like handfuls of pebbles. As usual, Garion rose early and tiptoed on unshod feet from the tiny cabin he shared with his sleeping wife. He made his way down the dark companionway past the doors to the cabins where the others slept and entered the aft cabin. He stood for a time at the windows running across the stem of the ship, looking out at the wind-tossed waves and listening to the slow creak of the tiller post running down through the center of the cabin to the rudder that probed the dark water beneath the stern.
As he sat down to put on his boots, the door opened and Durnik came in, brushing the ice pellets of the sleet squall chattering on the decks from the folds of his cloak. "It's going to be slow going for a while, I'm afraid," he said to Garion. "The wind's swung around and it's coming directly up out of the south. We're running right straight into it. The sailors are breaking out the oars."
"Could you get any idea of how far it is to the tip of the peninsula?" Garion asked, standing up and stamping his feet to settle his boots into place.
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"I talked with the captain a bit. From what he said, it's only a few leagues. There's a cluster of islands that runs off the south end of it, though, and he wants to let this blow over before he tries to thread his way through the passage. He's not much of a sailor, and this isn't much of a boat, so I guess he's a little timid."
Garion leaned forward, put his hands on the sill of one of the stern windows and looked out again at the stormy sea. "This could blow for a week," he observed. He turned to look at his friend. "Has our captain recovered his composure at all?" he asked. "He was a little wild-eyed when we sailed out of Rak Urga."
Durnik smiled. "I think he's been talking to himself very hard. He's trying to convince himself that he didn't really see what happened back there. He still tends to cringe a lot when Pol goes out on deck, though."
"Good. Is she awake?"
Durnik nodded. "I fixed her morning tea for her before I went out on deck."
"How do you think she'd react if I asked her to bully the captain for me—just a little bit?"
"I don't know that I'd use the word 'bully,' Garion," Durnik advised seriously. "Try 'talk to' or 'persuade' instead. Pol doesn't really think of what she does as bullying."
"It is, though."
"Of course, but she doesn't think of it that way."
"Let's go see her."
The cabin Polgara shared with Durnik was as tiny and cramped as all the rest aboard this ungainly vessel. Two-thirds of the space inside was given over to the high-railed bed, built of planks and seeming to grow out of the bulkheads themselves. Polgara sat in the center of the bed in her favorite blue dressing gown, holding a cup of tea and gazing out the porthole at the sleet-spattered waves.
"Good morning, Aunt Pol," Garion greeted her.
"Good morning, dear. How nice of you to visit."
"Are you all right, now?" he asked. "What I mean is, I understand that you were quite upset about what happened back at the harbor."
She sighed. "I think the worst part was that I had no choice in the matter. Once Chabat raised the demon, she was doomed—but I was the one who had to destroy her soul." Her expression was somber with a peculiar overtone of a deep and abiding regret. "Could we talk about something else?" she asked.
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