Pawn of Prophecy tb-1

by David Eddings

  "My orders are also from the king," the fussy-looking man said, "and l am commanded to have them made presentable before they are delivered to the throne room. I will take charge of them."

  "They will remain in my custody, Count Nilden, until they have been delivered to the king himself," Brendig said coldly.

  "I will not have your muddy soldiers tracking through the halls of the palace, Lord Brendig," the Count replied.

  "Then we will wait here, Count Nilden," Brendig said. "Be so good as to fetch his Majesty."

  "Fetch?" The Count's face was aghast. "I am Chief Butler to his Majesty's household, Lord Brendig. I do not fetch anything or anybody."

  Brendig turned as if to remount his horse.

  "Oh, very well," Count Nilden said petulantly, "if you must have it your own way. At least have them wipe their feet."

  Brendig bowed coldly.

  "I won't forget this, Lord Brendig," Nilden threatened.

  "Nor shall I, Count Nilden," Brendig replied.

  Then they all dismounted and, with Brendig's soldiers drawn up in close order about them, they crossed the courtyard to a broad door near the center of the west wing.

  "Be so good as to follow me," Count Nilden said, glancing with a shudder at the mud-spattered soldiers, and he led them into the wide corridor which lay beyond the door.

  Apprehension and curiosity struggled in Garion's mind. Despite the assurances of Silk and Durnik and the hopeful implications of Count Nilden's announcement that he was going to have them made presentable, the threat of some clammy, rat-infested dungeon, complete with a rack and a wheel and other unpleasant things, still seemed very real. On the other hand, he had never been in a palace before, and his eyes tried to be everywhere at once. That part of his mind which sometimes spoke to him in dry detachment told him that his fears were probably groundless and that his gawking made him appear to be a doltish country bumpkin.

  Count Nilden led them directly to a part of the corndor where there were a number of highly polished doors. "This one is for the boy," he announced, pointing at one of them.

  One of the soldiers opened the door, and Garion reluctantly stepped through, looking back over his shoulder at Aunt Pol.

  "Come along now," a somewhat impatient voice said. Garion whirled, not knowing what to expect.

  "Close the door, boy," the fine-looking man who had been waiting for him said. "We don't have all day, you know." The man was waiting beside a large wooden tub with steam rising from it. "Quickly, boy, take off those filthy rags and get into the tub. His Majesty is waiting."

  Too confused to object or even answer, Garion numbly began to unlace his tunic.

  After he had been bathed and the knots had been brushed out of his hair, he was dressed in clothes which lay on a nearby bench. His coarse woolen hose of serviceable peasant brown were exchanged for ones of a much finer weave in a lustrous blue. His scuffed and muddy boots were traded for soft leather shoes. His tunic was soft white linen, and the doublet he wore over it was a rich blue, trimmed with a silvery fur.

  "I guess that's the best I can do on short notice," the man who had bathed and dressed him said, looking him up and down critically. "At least I won't be totally embarrassed when you're presented to the king."

  Garion mumbled his thanks and then stood, waiting for further instructions.

  "Well, go along, boy. You mustn't keep his Majesty waiting."

  Silk and Barak stood in the corridor, talking quietly. Barak was hugely splendid in a green brocade doublet, but looked uncomfortable without his sword. Silk's doublet was a rich black, trimmed in silver, and his scraggly whiskers had been carefully trimmed into an elegant short beard.

  "What does all of this mean?" Garion asked as he joined them. "We're to be presented to the king," Barak said, "and our honest clothes might have given offense. Kings aren't accustomed to looking at ordinary men."

  Durnik emerged from one of the rooms, his face pale with anger. "That overdressed fool wanted to give me a bath!" he said in choked outrage.

  "It's the custom," Silk explained. "Noble guests aren't expected to bathe themselves. I hope you didn't hurt him."

  "I'm not a noble, and I'm quite able to bathe myself," Durnik said hotly. "I told him that I'd drown him in his own tub if he didn't keep his hands to himself. After that, he didn't pester me anymore, but he did steal my clothes. I had to put these on instead." He gestured at his clothes which were quite similar to Garion's. "I hope nobody sees me in all this frippery."

  "Barak says the king might be offended if he saw us in our real clothes," Garion told him.

  "The king won't be looking at me," Durnik said, "and I don't like this business of trying to look like something I'm not. I'll wait outside with the horses if I can get my own clothes back."

  "Be patient, Durnik," Barak advised. "We'll get this business with the king straightened out and then be on our way again."

  If Durnik was angry, Mister Wolf was in what could best be described as a towering fury. He came out into the corridor dressed in a snowy white robe, deeply cowled at the back. "Someone's going to pay for this," he raged.

  "It does become you," Silk said admiringly.

  "Your taste has always been questionable, Master Silk," Wolf said in a frosty tone. "Where's Pol?"

  "The lady has not yet made her appearance," Silk said.

  "I should have known," Wolf said, sitting down on a nearby bench. "We may as well be comfortable. Pol's preparations usually take quite a while."

  And so they waited. Captain Brendig, who had changed his boots and doublet, paced up and down as the minutes dragged by. Garion was totally baffled by their reception. They did not seem to be under arrest, but his imagination still saw dungeons, and that was enough to make him very jumpy.

  And then Aunt Pol appeared. She wore the blue velvet gown that had been made for her in Camaar and a silver circlet about her head which set off the single white lock at her brow. Her bearing was regal and her face stern.

  "So soon, Mistress Pol?" Wolf asked dryly. "I hope you weren't rushed."

  She ignored that and examined each of them in turn.

  "Adequate, I suppose," she said finally, absently adjusting the collar of Garion's doublet. "Give me your arm, Old Wolf, and let's find out what the King of the Sendars wants with us."

  Mister Wolf rose from his bench, extended his arm, and the two of them started down the corridor. Captain Brendig hastily assembled his soldiers and followed them all in some kind of ragged order. "If you please, my Lady," he called out to Aunt Pol, "permit me to show you the way."

  "We know the way, Lord Brendig," she replied without so much as turning her head.

  Count Nilden, the Chief Butler, stood waiting for them in front of two massive doors guarded by uniformed men-at-arms. He bowed slightly to Aunt Pol and snapped his fingers. The men-at-arms swung the heavy doors inward.

  Fulrach, the King of Sendaria, was a dumpy-looking man with a short brown beard. He sat, rather uncomfortably it appeared, on a highbacked throne which stood on a dais at one end of the great hall into which Count Nilden led them. The throne room was vast, with a high, vaulted ceiling and walls covered with what seemed acres of heavy, red velvet drapery. There were candles everywhere, and dozens of people strolled about in fine clothes and chatted idly in the corners, all but ignoring the presence of the king.

  "May I announce you?" Count Nilden asked Mister Wolf.

  "Fulrach knows who I am," Wolf replied shortly and strode down the long scarlet carpet toward the throne with Aunt Pol still on his arm. Garion and the others followed, with Brendig and his soldiers close behind, through the suddenly quiet crowd of courtiers and their ladies.

  At the foot of the throne they all stopped, and Wolf bowed rather coldly. Aunt Pol, her eyes frosty, curtsied, and Barak and Silk bowed in a courtly manner. Durnik and Garion followed suit, though not nearly as gracefully.

  "If it please your Majesty," Brendig's voice came from behind them, "these are the ones you
sought."

  "I knew you could be depended upon, Lord Brendig," the King replied in a rather ordinary-sounding voice. "Your reputation is well deserved. You have my thanks." Then he looked at Mister Wolf and the rest of them, his expression undecipherable.

  Garion began to tremble.

  "My dear old friend," the king said to Mister Wolf. "It's been too many years since we met last."

  "Have you lost your wits entirely, Fulrach?" Mister Wolf snapped in a voice which carried no further than the king's ears. "Why do you choose to interfere with me—now, of all times? And what possessed you to outfit me in this absurd thing?" He plucked at the front of his white robe in disgust. "Are you trying to announce my presence to every Murgo from here to the hook of Arendia?"

  The king's face looked pained. "I was afraid you might take it this way," he said in a voice no louder than Mister Wolf's had been. "I'll explain when we can speak more privately." He turned quickly to Aunt Pol as if trying to preserve the appearance at least of dignity. "It's been much too long since we have seen you, dear Lady. Layla and the children have missed you, and I have been desolate in your absence."

  "Your Majesty is too kind," Aunt Pol said, her tone as cold as Wolf's. The king winced. "Pray, dear Lady," he apologized, "don't judge me too hastily. My reasons were urgent. I hope that Lord Brendig's summons did not too greatly inconvenience you."

  "Lord Brendig was the soul of courtesy," Aunt Pol said, her tone unchanged. She glanced once at Brendig, who had grown visibly pale.

  "And you, my Lord Barak," the king hurned on as if trying to make the best of a bad situation, "how fares your cousin, our dear brother king, Anheg of Cherek?"

  "He was well when last I saw him, your Majesty," Barak replied formally. "A bit drunk, but that's not unusual for Anheg."

  The king chuckled a bit nervously and turned quickly to Silk. "Prince Kheldar of the Royal House of Drasnia," he said. "We are amazed to find such noble visitors in our realm, and more than a little injured that they chose not to call upon us so that we might greet them. Is the King of the Sendars of so little note that he's not even worth a brief stop?"

  "We intended no disrespect, your Majesty," Silk replied, bowing, "but our errand was of such urgency that there was no time for the usual courtesies."

  The king flickered a warning glance at that and surprisingly wove his fingers in the scarce perceptible gestures of the Drasnian secret language. Not here. Too many ears about. He then looked inquiringly at Durnik and Garion.

  Aunt Pol stepped forward.

  "This is Goodman Durnik of the District of Erat, your Majesty," she said, "a brave and honest man."

  "Welcome, Goodman Durnik," the king said. "I can only hope that men may also one day call me a brave and honest man."

  Durnik bowed awkwardly, his face filled with bewilderment. "I'm just a simple blacksmith, your Honor," he said, "but I hope all men know that I am your Honor's most loyal and devoted subject."

  "Well-spoken, Goodman Durnik," the king said with a smile, and then he looked at Garion.

  Aunt Pol followed his glance.

  "A boy, your Majesty," she said rather indifferently. "Garion by name. He was placed in my care some years ago and accompanies us because I didn't know what else to do with him."

  A terrible coldness struck at Garion's stomach. The certainty that her casual words were in fact the bald truth came crashing down upon him. She had not even tried to soften the blow. The indifference with which she had destroyed his life hurt almost more than the destruction itself.

  "Also welcome, Garion," the king said. "You travel in noble company for one so young."

  "I didn't know who they were, your Majesty," Garion said miserably. "Nobody tells me anything."

  The king laughed in tolerant amusement.

  "As you grow older, Garion," he said, "you'll probably find that during these days such innocence is the most comfortable state in which to live. I've been told things of late that I'd much prefer not to know."

  "May we speak privately now, Fulrach?" Mister Wolf said, his voice still irritated.

  "In good time, my old friend," the king replied. "I've ordered a banquet prepared in your honor. Let's all go in and dine. Layla and the children are waiting for us. There will be time later to discuss certain matters." And with that he rose and stepped down from the dais.

  Garion, sunk in his private misery, fell in beside Silk. "Prince Kheldar?" he said, desperately needing to take his mind off the shocking reality that had just fallen upon him.

  "An accident of birth, Garion," Silk said with a shrug. "Something over which I had no control. Fortunately I'm only the nephew of the King of Drasnia and far down in the line of succession. I'm not in any immediate danger of ascending the throne."

  "And Barak is-?"

  "The cousin of King Anheg of Cherek," Silk replied. He looked over his shoulder. "What is your exact rank, Barak?" he asked.

  "The Earl of Trellheim," Barak rumbled. "Why do you ask?"

  "The lad here was curious," Silk said.

  "It's all nonsense anyway," Barak said, "but when Anheg became king, someone had to become Clan-Chief. In Cherek you can't be both. It's considered unlucky—particularly by the chiefs of the other clans."

  "I can see why they might feel that way." Silk laughed.

  "It's an empty title anyway," Barak observed. "There hasn't been a clan war in Cherek for over three thousand years. I let my youngest brother act in my stead. He's a simpleminded fellow and easily amused. Besides, it annoys my wife."

  "You're married?" Garion was startled.

  "If you want to call it that," Barak said sourly.

  Silk nudged Garion warningly, indicating that this was a delicate subject.

  "Why didn't you tell us?" Garion demanded accusingly. "About your titles, I mean."

  "Would it have made any difference?" Silk asked.

  "Well—no," Garion admitted, "but " He stopped, unable to put his feelings about the matter into words. "I don't understand any of this," he concluded lamely.

  "It will all become clear in time," Silk assured him as they entered the banquet hall.

  The hall was almost as large as the throne room. There were long tables covered with fine linen cloth and once again candles everywhere. A servant stood behind each chair, and everything was supervised by a plump little woman with a beaming face and a tiny crown perched precariously atop her head. As they all entered, she came forward quickly.

  "Dear Pol," she said, "you look just wonderful." She embraced Aunt Pol warmly, and the two began talking together animatedly.

  "Queen Layla," Silk explained briefly to Garion. "They call her the Mother of Sendaria. The four children over there are hers. She has four or five others—older and probably away on state business, since Fulrach insists that his children earn their keep. It's a standard joke among the other kings that Queen Layla's been pregnant since she was fourteen, but that's probably because they're expected to send royal gifts at each new birth. She's a good woman, though, and she keeps King Fulrach from making too many mistakes."

  "She knows Aunt Pol," Garion said, and that fact disturbed him for some reason.

  "Everybody knows your Aunt Pol," Silk told him.

  Since Aunt Pol and the queen were deep in conversation and already drifting toward the head of the table, Garion stayed close to Silk. Don't let me make any mistakes, he gestured, trying to keep the movements of his fingers inconspicuous.

  Silk winked in reply.

  Once they were all seated and the food began to arrive, Garion began to relax. He found that all he had to do was follow Silk's lead, and the intricate niceties of formal dining no longer intimidated him. The talk around him was dignified and quite incomprehensible, but he reasoned that no one was likely to pay much attention to him and that he was probably safe if he kept his mouth shut and his eyes on his plate.

  An elderly nobleman with a beautifully curled silvery beard, however, leaned toward him. "You have traveled recently, I'm told," h
e said in a somewhat condescending tone. "How fares the kingdom, young man?"

  Garion looked helplessly across the table at Silk. What do I say? he gestured with his fingers.

  Tell him that the kingdom fares no better nor no worse than might be anticipated' under the present circumstances, Silk replied.

  Garion dutifully repeated that.

  "Ah," the old nobleman said, "much as I had expected. You're a very observant boy for one so young. I enjoy talking with young people. Their views are so fresh."

  Who is he? Garion gestured.

  The Earl of Seline, Silk replied. He's a tiresome old bore, but be polite to him. Address him as my Lord.

  "And how did you find the roads?" the earl inquired.

  "Somewhat in disrepair, my Lord," Garion replied with Silk's prompting. "But that's normal for this time of year, isn't it?"

  "Indeed it is," the earl said approvingly. "What a splendid boy you are."

  The strange three-way conversation continued, and Garion even began to enjoy himself as the comments fed to him by Silk seemed to amaze the old gentleman.

  At last the banquet was over, and the king rose from his seat at the head of the table. "And now, dear friends," he announced, "Queen Layla and I would like to visit privately with our noble guests, and so we pray you will excuse us." He offered his arm to Aunt Pol, Mister Wolf offered his to the plump little queen, and the four of them walked toward the far door of the hall.

  The Earl of Seline smiled broadly at Garion and then looked across the table. "I've enjoyed our conversation, Prince Kheldar," he said to Silk. "I may indeed be a tiresome old bore as you say, but that can sometimes be an advantage, don't you think?"

  Silk laughed ruefully. "I should have known that an old fox like you would be an adept at the secret language, my Lord."

  "A legacy from a misspent youth." The earl laughed. "Your pupil is most proficient, Prince Kheldar, but his accent is strange."

  "The weather was cold while he was learning, my Lord," Silk said, "and our fingers were a bit stiff. I'll correct the problem when we have leisure."

  The old nobleman seemed enormously pleased with himself at having outsmarted Silk. "Splendid boy," he said, patting Garion's shoulder, and then he went off chuckling to himself.