Pawn of Prophecy tb-1

by David Eddings

  "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 strange 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."

  "She was a lot younger then, wasn't she?" Garion asked.

  "No," Durnik said thoughtfully. "Mistress Pol never changes. She looks exactly the same now as she did that first day."

  "I'm sure it only seems that way," Garion said. "Everybody gets older."

  "Not Mistress Pol," Durnik said.

  That evening Wolf and his sharp-nosed friend returned, their faces somber.

  "Nothing," Wolf announced shortly, scratching at his snowy beard.

  "I might have told you that," Aunt Pol sniffed.

  Wolf gave her an irritated look, then shrugged.

  "We had to be certain," he said.

  The red-bearded giant, Barak, looked up from the mail shirt he was polishing.

  "No trace at all?" he asked.

  "Not a hint," Wolf said. "He hasn't gone through here."

  "Where now, then?" Barak asked, setting his mail shirt aside.

  "Muros," Wolf said.

  Barak rose and went to the window. "The rain is slacking," he said, "but the roads are going to be difficult."

  "We won't be able to leave tomorrow anyway," Silk said, lounging on a stool near the door. "I have to dispose of our turnips. If we carry them out of Darine with us, it will seem curious, and we don't want to be remembered by anyone who might have occasion to talk to any wandering Murgo."

  "I suppose you're right," Wolf said. "I hate to lose the time, but there's no help for it."

  "The roads will be better after a day's drying," Silk pointed out, "and wagons travel faster empty."

  "Are you sure you can sell them, friend Silk?" Durnik asked.

  "I am a Drasnian," Silk replied confidently. "I can sell anything. We might even make a good profit."

  "Don't worry about that," Wolf said. "The turnips have served their purpose. All we need to do now is to get rid of them."

  "It's a matter of principle," Silk said airily. "Besides, if I don't try to strike a hard bargain, that too would be remembered. Don't be concerned. The business won't take long and won't delay us."

  "Could I go along with you, Silk?" Garion asked hopefully. "I haven't seen any part of Darine except for this inn."

  Silk looked inquiringly at Aunt Pol.

  She considered for a moment. "I don't suppose it would do any harm," she said, "and it'll give me time to attend to some things."

  The next morning after breakfast Silk and Garion set out with Garion carrying a bag of turnips. The small man seemed to be in extraordinarily good spirits, and his long, pointed nose seemed almost to quiver. "The whole point," he said as they walked along the littered, cobblestoned streets, "is not to appe
ar too eager to sell—and to know the market, of course."

  "That sounds reasonable," Garion said politely.

  "Yesterday I made a few inquiries," Silk went on. "Turnips are selling on the docks of Kotu in Drasnia for a Drasnian silver link per hundredweight."

  "A what?" Garion asked.

  "It's a Drasnian coin," Silk explained, "about the same as a silver imperial—not quite, but close enough. The merchant will try to buy our turnips for no more than a quarter of that, but he'll go as high as half."

  "How do you know that?"

  "It's customary."

  "How many turnips do we have?" Garion asked, stepping around a pile of refuse in the street.

  "We have thirty hundredweight," Silk said.

  "That would be-" Garion's face contorted in an effort to make the complex calculation in his head.

  "Fifteen imperials," Silk supplied. "Or three gold crowns."

  "Gold?" Garion asked. Because gold coins were so rare in country dealings, the word seemed to have an almost magic quality.

  Silk nodded. "It's always preferable," he said. "It's easier to carry. The weight of silver becomes burdensome."

  "And how much did we pay for the turnips?"

  "Five imperials," Silk said.

  "The farmer gets five, we get fifteen, and the merchant gets thirty?" Garion asked incredulously. "That hardly seems fair."

  Silk shrugged. "It's the way things are," he said. "There's the merchant's house." He pointed at a rather imposing building with broad steps. "When we go in, he'll pretend to be very busy and not at all interested in us. Later, while he and I are bargaining, he'll notice you and tell you what a splendid boy you are."

  "Me?"

  "He'll think that you're some relation of mine—a son or a nephew perhaps—and he'll think to gain advantage over me by flattering you."

  "What a strange notion," Garion said.

  "I'll tell him many things," Silk went on, talking very rapidly now. His eyes seemed to glitter, and his nose was actually twitching. "Pay no attention to what I say, and don't let any surprise show on your face. He'll be watching us both very closely."