Pawn of Prophecy tb-1

by David Eddings

"You're going to lie?" Garion was shocked.

  "It's expected," Silk said. "The merchant will also lie. The one of us who lies the best will get the better of the bargain."

  "It all seems terribly involved," Garion said.

  "It's a game," Silk said, his ferretlike face breaking into a grin. "A very exciting game that's played all over the world. Good players get rich, and bad players don't."

  "Are you a good player?" Garion asked.

  "One of the best," Silk replied modestly. "Let's go in." And he led Garion up the broad steps to the merchant's house.

  The merchant wore an unbelted, fur-trimmed gown of a pale green color and a close-fitting cap. He behaved much as Silk had predicted that he would, sitting before a plain table and leafing through many scraps of parchment with a busy frown on his face while Silk and Garion waited for him to notice them.

  "Very well, then," he said finally. "You have business with me?"

  "We have some turnips," Silk said somewhat deprecatingly.

  "That's truly unfortunate, friend," the merchant said, assuming a long face. "The wharves at Kotu groan with turnips just now. It would hardly pay me to take them off your hands at any price."

  Silk shrugged. "Perhaps the Chereks or the Algars then," he said. "Their markets may not yet be so glutted as yours." He turned. "Come along, boy," he said to Garion.

  "A moment, good friend," the merchant said. "I detect from your speech that you and I are countrymen. Perhaps as a favor I'll look at your turnips."

  "Your time is valuable," Silk said. "If you aren't in the market for turnips, why should we trouble you further?"

  "I might still be able to find a buyer somewhere," the merchant protested, "if the merchandise is of good quality." He took the bag from Garion and opened it.

  Garion listened with fascination as Silk and the merchant fenced politely with each other, each attempting to gain the advantage.

  "What a splendid boy this is," the merchant said, suddenly seeming to notice Garion for the first time.

  "An orphan," Silk said, "placed in my care. I'm attempting to teach him the rudiments of business, but he's slow to learn."

  "Ah," the merchant said, sounding slightly disappointed.

  Then Silk made a curious gesture with the fingers of his right hand. The merchant's eyes widened slightly, then he too gestured.

  After that, Garion had no idea of what was going on. The hands of Silk and the merchant wove intricate designs in the air, sometimes flickering so rapidly that the eye could scarce follow them. Silk's long, slender fingers seemed to dance, and the merchant's eyes were fixed upon them, his forehead breaking into a sweat at the intensity of his concentration.

  "Done, then?" Silk said finally, breaking the long silence in the room.

  "Done," the merchant agreed somewhat ruefully.

  "It's always a pleasure doing business with an honest man," Silk said.

  "I've learned much today," the merchant said. "I hope you don't intend to remain in this business for long, friend. If you do, I might just as well give you the keys to my warehouse and strongroom right now and save myself the anguish I'll experience every time you appear."

  Silk laughed. "You've been a worthy opponent, friend merchant," he said.

  "I thought so at first," the merchant said, shaking his head, "but I'm no match for you. Deliver your turnips to my warehouse on Bedik wharf tomorrow morning." He scratched a few lines on a piece of parchment with a quill. "My overseer will pay you."

  Silk bowed and took the parchment. "Come along, boy," he said to Garion, and led the way from the room.

  "What happened?" Garion asked when they were outside in the blustery street.

  "We got the price I wanted," Silk said, somewhat smugly.

  "But you didn't say anything," Garion objected.

  "We spoke at great length, Garion," Silk said. "Weren't you watching?"

  "All I saw was the two of you wiggling your fingers at each other."

  "That's how we spoke," Silk explained. "It's a separate language my countrymen devised thousands of years ago. It's called the secret language, and it's much faster than the spoken one. It also permits us to speak in the presence of strangers without being overheard. An adept can conduct business while discussing the weather, if he chooses."

  "Will you teach it to me?" Garion asked, fascinated.

  "It takes a long time to learn," Silk told him.

  "Isn't the trip to Muros likely to take a long time?" Garion suggested.

  Silk shrugged. "As you wish," he said. "It won't be easy, but it will help pass the time, I suppose."

  "Are we going back to the inn now?" Garion asked.

  "Not right away," Silk said. "We'll need a cargo to explain our entry into Muros."

  "I thought we were going to leave with the wagons empty."

  "We are."

  "But you just said-"

  "We'll see a merchant I know," Silk explained. "He buys farm goods all over Sendaria and has them held on the farms until the markets are right in Arendia and Tolnedra. Then he arranges to have them freighted either to Muros or Camaar."

  "It sounds very complicated," Garion said doubtfully.

  "1t's not really," Silk assured him. "Come along, my boy, you'll see." The merchant was a Tolnedran who wore a flowing blue robe and a disdainful expression on his face. He was talking with a grim-faced Murgo as Silk and Garion entered his counting room. The Murgo, like all of his race Garion had ever seen, had deep scars on his face, and his black eyes were penetrating.

  Silk touched Garion's shoulder with a cautionary hand when they entered and saw the Murgo, then he stepped forward. "Forgive me, noble merchant," he said ingratiatingly. "I didn't know you were occupied. My porter and I will wait outside until you have time for us."

  "My friend and I will be busy for most of the day," the Tolnedran said. "Is it something important?"

  "I was just wondering if you might have a cargo for me," Silk replied.

  "No," the Tolnedran said shortly. "Nothing." He started to turn back to the Murgo, then stopped and looked sharply at Silk. "Aren't you Ambar of Kotu?" he asked. "I thought you dealt in spices."

  Garion recognized the name Silk had given the watchmen at the gates of the city. It was evident that the little man had used the name before.

  "Alas," Silk sighed. "My last venture lies at the bottom of the sea just off the hook of Arendia—two full shiploads bound for Tol Honeth. A sudden storm and I am a pauper."

  "A tragic tale, worthy Ambar," the Tolnedran master merchant said, somewhat smugly.

  "I'm now reduced to freighting produce," Silk said morosely. "I have three rickety wagons, and that's all that's left of the empire of Ambar of Kotu."

  "Reverses come to us all," the Tolnedran said philosophically.

  "So this is the famous Ambar of Kotu," the Murgo said, his harshly accented voice quite soft. He looked Silk up and down, his black eyes probing. "It was a fortunate chance that brought me out today. I am enriched by meeting so illustrious a man."

  Silk bowed politely. "You're too kind, noble sir," he said.

  "I am Asharak of Rak Goska," the Murgo introduced himself. He turned to the Tolnedran. "We can put aside our discussion for a bit, Mingan," he said. "We will accrue much honor by assisting so great a merchant to begin recouping his losses."

  "You're too kind, worthy Asharak," Silk said, bowing again. Garion's mind was shrieking all kinds of warnings, but the Murgo's sharp eyes made it impossible for him to make the slightest gesture to Silk. He kept his face impassive and his eyes dull even as his thoughts raced.

  "I would gladly help you, my friend," Mingan said, "but I have no cargo in Darine at the moment."

  "I'm already committed from Darine to Medalia," Silk said quickly. "Three wagonloads of Cherek iron. And I also have a contract to move furs from Muros to Camaar. It's the fifty leagues from Medalia to Muros that concerns me. Wagons traveling empty earn no profit."

  "Medalia." Mingan frowned. "Let me examine
my records. It seems to me that I do have something there." He stepped out of the room. "Your exploits are legendary in the kingdoms of the east, Ambar,"

  Asharak of Rak Goska said admiringly. "When last I left Cthol Murgos there was still a kingly price on your head."

  Silk laughed easily. "A minor misunderstanding, Asharak," he said. "I was merely investigating the extent of Tolnedran intelligence gathering activities in your kingdom. I took some chances I probably shouldn't have, and the Tolnedrans found out what I was up to. The charges they leveled at me were fabrications."

  "How did you manage to escape?" Asharak asked. "The soldiers of King Taur Urgas nearly dismantled the kingdom searching for you."

  "I chanced to meet a Thullish lady of high station," Silk said. "I managed to prevail upon her to smuggle me across the border into Mishrak ac Thull."

  "Ah," Asharak said, smiling briefly. "Thullish ladies are notoriously easy to prevail upon."

  "But most demanding," Silk said. "They expect full repayment for any favors. I found it more difficult to escape from her than I did from Cthol Murgos."

  "Do you still perform such services for your government?" Asharak asked casually.

  "They won't even talk to me," Silk said with a gloomy expression. "Ambar the spice merchant is useful to them, but Ambar the poor wagoneer is quite another thing."

  "Of course," Asharak said, and his tone indicated that he obviously did not believe what he had been told. He glanced briefly and without seeming interest at Garion, and Garion felt a strange shock of recognition. Without knowing exactly how it was that he knew, he was instantly sure that Asharak of Rak Goska had known him for all of his life. There was a familiarity in that glance, a familiarity that had grown out of the dozen times or more that their eyes had met while Garion was growing up and Asharak, muffled always in a black cloak and astride a black horse, had stopped and watched and then moved on. Garion returned the gaze without expression, and the faintest hint of a smile flickered across Asharak's scarred face.

  Mingan returned to the room then. "I have some hams on a farm near Medalia," he announced. "When do you expect to arrive in Muros?"

  "Fifteen or twenty days," Silk told him.

  Mingan nodded. "I'll give you a contract to move my hams to Muros," he offered. "Seven silver nobles per wagonload."

  "Tolnedran nobles or Sendarian?" Silk asked quickly.

  "This is Sendaria, worthy Ambar."

  "We're citizens of the world, noble merchant," Silk pointed out. "Transactions between us have always been in Tolnedran coin."

  Mingan sighed. "You were ever quick, worthy Ambar," he said."Very well, Tolnedran nobles—because we are old friends, and I grieve for your misfortunes."

  "Perhaps we'll meet again, Ambar," Asharak said.

  "Perhaps," Silk said, and he and Garion left the counting room. "Skinflint," Silk muttered when they reached the street. "The rate should have been ten, not seven."

  "What about the Murgo?" Garion asked. Once again there was the familiar reluctance to reveal too much about the strange, unspoken link that had existed between him and the figure that now at least had a name.

  Silk shrugged.

  "He knows I'm up to something, but he doesn't know exactly what just as I know that he's up to something. I've had dozens of meetings like that. Unless our purposes happen to collide, we won't interfere with each other. Asharak and I are both professionals."

  "You're a very strange person, Silk," Garion said.

  Silk winked at him.

  "Why were you and Mingan arguing about the coins?" Garion asked.

  "Tolnedran coins are a bit purer," Silk told him. "They're worth more."

  "I see," Garion said.

  The next morning they all mounted the wagons again and delivered their turnips to the warehouse of the Drasnian merchant. Then, their wagons rumbling emptily, they rolled out of Darine, bound toward the south.

  The rain had ceased, but the morning was overcast and blustery.

  On the hill outside town Silk turned to Garion, who rode beside him.

  "Very well," he said,"let's begin." He moved his fingers in front of Garion's face. "This means `Good morning.' "

  Chapter Eight

  AFTER THE FIRST DAY the wind blew itself out, and the pale autumn sun reappeared. Their route southward led them along the Darine River, a turbulent stream that rushed down from the mountains on its way to the Gulf of Cherek. The country was hilly and timbered but, since the wagons were empty, their horses made good time.

  Garion paid scant attention to the scenery as they trundled up the valley of the Darine. His attention was riveted almost totally on Silk's flickering fingers.

  "Don't shout," Silk instructed as Garion practiced.

  "Shout?" Garion asked, puzzled.

  "Keep your gestures small. Don't exaggerate them. The idea is to make the whole business inconspicuous."

  "I'm only practicing," Garion said.

  "Better to break bad habits before they become too strong," Silk said. "And be careful not to mumble."

  "Mumble?"

  "Form each phrase precisely. Finish one before you go on to the next. Don't worry about speed. That comes with time."

  By the third day their conversations were half in words and half in gestures, and Garion was beginning to feel quite proud of himself. They pulled off the road into a grove of tall cedars that evening and formed up their usual half circle with the wagons.

  "How goes the instruction?" Mister Wolf asked as he climbed down.

  "It progresses," Silk said. "I expect it will go more rapidly when the boy outgrows his tendency to use baby talk."

  Garion was crushed.

  Barak, who was also dismounting, laughed.

  "I've often thought that the secret language might be useful to know," he said, "but fingers built to grip a sword are not nimble enough for it." He held out his huge hand and shook his head.

  Durnik lifted his face and sniffed at the air. "It's going to be cold tonight," he said. "We'll have frost before morning."

  Barak also sniffed, and then he nodded. "You're right, Durnik," he rumbled. "We'll need a good fire tonight." He reached into the wagon and lifted out his axe.

  "There are riders coming," Aunt Pol announced, still seated on the wagon.

  They all stopped talking and listened to the faint drumming sound on the road they had just left.

  "Three at least," Barak said grimly. He handed the axe to Durnik and reached back into the wagon for his sword.

  "Four," Silk said. He stepped to his own wagon and took his own sword out from under the seat.

  "We're far enough from the road," Wolf said. "If we stay still, they'll pass without seeing us."

  "That won't hide us from Grolims," Aunt Pol said. "They won't be searching with their eyes." She made two quick gestures to Wolf which Garion did not recognize.

  No, Wolf gestured back. Let us instead—He also made an unrecognizable gesture.

  Aunt Pol looked at him for a moment and then nodded.

  "All of you stay quite still," Wolf instructed them. Then he turned toward the road, his face intent.

  Garion held his breath. The sound of the galloping horses grew nearer.

  Then a strange thing happened. Though Garion knew he should be fearful of the approaching riders and the threat they seemed to pose, a kind of dreamy lassitude fell over him. It was as if his mind had quite suddenly gone to sleep, leaving his body still standing there watching incuriously the passage of those dark-mantled horsemen along the road.

  How long he stood so he was not able to say; but when he roused from his half dream, the riders were gone and the sun had set. The sky to the east had grown purple with approaching evening, and there were tatters of sun-stained clouds along the western horizon.

  "Murgos," Aunt Pol said quite calmly, "and one Grolim." She started to climb down from the wagon.

  "There are many Murgos in Sendaria, great lady," Silk said, helping her down, "and on many different missi
ons."

  "Murgos are one thing," Wolf said grimly, "but Grolims are quite something else. I think it might be better if we moved off the welltraveled roads. Do you know a back way to Medalia?"

  "Old friend," Silk replied modestly, "I know a back way to every place."

  "Good," Wolf said. "Let's move deeper into these woods. I'd prefer it if no chance gleam from our fire reached the road."

  Garion had seen the cloaked Murgos only briefly. There was no way to be sure if one of them had been that same Asharak he had finally met after all the years of knowing him only as a dark figure on a black horse, but somehow he was almost certain that Asharak had been among them. Asharak would follow him, would be there wherever he went. It was the kind of thing one could count on.

  Durnik had been right when he had spoken of frost. The ground was white with it the next morning, and the horses' breath steamed in the chill air as they set out. They moved along lanes and little-used tracks that were partially weed-choked. The going was slower than it might have been on the main road, but they all felt much safer.

  It took them five more days to reach the village of Winold, some twelve leagues to the north of Medalia. There, at Aunt Pol's insistence, they stopped overnight at a somewhat rundown inn. "I refuse to sleep on the ground again," she announced flatly.

  After they had eaten in the dingy common room of the inn, the men turned to their ale pots, and Aunt Pol went up to her chamber with instructions that hot water be brought to her for bathing. Garion, however, made some pretext about checking the horses and went outside. It was not that he was in the habit of being deliberately deceptive, but it had occurred to him in the last day or so that he had not had a single moment alone since they had left Faldor's farm. He was not by nature a solitary boy, but he had begun to feel quite keenly the restriction of always being in the presence of his elders.

  The village of Winold was not a large one, and he explored it from one end to the other in less than half an hour, loitering along its narrow, cobblestoned streets in the crispness of the early evening air. The windows of the houses glowed with golden candlelight, and Garion suddenly felt a great surge of homesickness.

  Then, at the next corner of the crooked street, in the brief light from an opening door, he saw a familiar figure. He could not be positive, but he shrank back against a rough stone wall anyway.