Magician's Gambit

  "Why is he angry with me?" Taiba asked, her voice dropping wearily from her lips in scarcely more than a whisper.

  "Cover your nakedness, woman," Relg told her. "You're an affront to decent eyes."

  "Is that all?" She laughed, a rich, throaty sound. "These are all the clothes I have." She looked down at her lush figure. "Besides, there's nothing wrong with my body. It's not deformed or ugly. Why should I hide it?"

  "Lewd woman!" Relg accused her.

  "If it bothers you so much, don't look," she suggested.

  "Relg has a certain religious problem," Silk told her dryly.

  "Don't mention religion," she said with a shudder.

  "You see," Relg snorted. "She's completely depraved."

  "Not exactly," Belgarath told him. "In Rak Cthol the word religion means the altar and the knife."

  "Garion," Aunt Pol said, "give me your cloak."

  He unfastened his heavy wool cloak and handed it to her. She started to cover the exhausted slave woman with it, but stopped suddenly and looked closely at her. "Where are your children?" she asked.

  "The Murgos took them," Taiba replied in a dead voice. "They were two baby girls - very beautiful - but they're gone now."

  "We'll get them back for you," Garion promised impulsively.

  She gave a bitter little laugh. "I don't think so. The Murgos gave them to the Grolims, and the Grolims sacrificed them on the altar of Torak. Ctuchik himself held the knife."

  Garion felt his blood run cold.

  "This cloak is warm," Taiba said gratefully, her hands smoothing the rough cloth. "I've been cold for such a long time." She sighed with a sort of weary contentment.

  Belgarath and Aunt Pol were looking at each other across Taiba's body. "I must be doing something right," the old man remarked cryptically after a moment. "To stumble across her like this after all these years of searching!"

  "Are you sure she's the right one, father?"

  "She almost has to be. Everything fits together too well - right down to the last detail." He drew in a deep breath and then let it out explosively. "That's been worrying me for a thousand years." He suddenly looked enormously pleased with himself. "How did you escape from the slave pens, Taiba?" he asked gently.

  "One of the Murgos forgot to lock a door," she replied, her voice drowsy. "After I slipped out, I found this knife. I was going to try to find Ctuchik and kill him with it, but I got lost. There are so many caves down here - so many. I wish I could kill him before I die, but I don't suppose there's much hope for that now." She sighed regretfully. "I think I'd like to sleep now. I'm so very tired."

  "Will you be all right here?" Aunt Pol asked her. "We have to leave, but we'll be back. Do you need anything?"

  "A little light, maybe." Taiba sighed. "I've lived in the dark all my life. I think I'd like it to be light when I die."

  "Relg," Aunt Polt said, "make her some light."

  "We might need it ourselves." His voice was still stiffly offended.

  "She needs it more."

  "Do it, Relg," Belgarath told the zealot in a firm voice.

  Relg's face hardened, but he mixed some of the contents of his two pouches together on a flat stone and dribbled a bit of water on the mixture. The pasty substance began to glow.

  "Thank you," Taiba said simply.

  Relg refused to answer or even to look at her.

  They went back up the passageway, leaving her beside the small pool with her dim little light. She began to sing again, quite softly this time and in a voice near the edge of sleep.

  Relg led them through the dark galleries, twisting and changing course frequently, always climbing. Hours dragged by, though time had little meaning in the perpetual darkness. They climbed more of the sheer faces and followed passageways that wound higher and higher up into the vast rock pillar. Garion lost track of direction as they climbed, and found himself wondering if even Relg knew which way he was going. As they rounded another corner in another gallery, a faint breeze seemed to touch their faces. The breeze carried a dreadful odor with it.

  "What's that stink?" Silk asked, wrinkling his sharp nose.

  "The slave pens, most likely," Belgarath replied. "Murgos are lax about sanitation."

  "The pens are under Rak Cthol, aren't they?" Barak asked. Belgarath nodded.

  "And they open up into the city itself?"

  "As I remember it, they do."

  "You've done it, Relg," Barak said, clapping the Ulgo on the shoulder.

  "Don't touch me," Reig told him.

  "Sorry, Relg."

  "The slave pens are going to be guarded," Belgarath told them. "We'll want to be very quiet now."

  They crept on up the passageway, being careful where they put their feet. Garion was not certain at what point the gallery began to show evidence of human construction. Finally they passed a partially open iron door. "Is there anybody in there?" he whispered to Silk.

  The little man sidled up to the opening, his dagger held low and ready. He glanced in, his head making a quick, darting movement. "Just some bones," he reported somberly.

  Belgarath signalled for a halt. "These lower galleries have probably been abandoned," he told them in a very quiet voice. "After the causeway was finished, the Murgos didn't need all those thousands of slaves. We'll go on up, but be quiet and keep your eyes open."

  They padded silently up the gradual incline of the gallery, passing more of the rusting iron doors, all standing partially ajar. At the top of the slope, the gallery turned back sharply on itself, still angling upward. Some words were crudely lettered on the wall in a script Garion could not recognize. "Grandfather," he whispered, pointing at the words.

  Belgarath glanced at the lettering and grunted. "Ninth level," he muttered. "We're still some distance below the city."

  "How far do we go before we start running into Murgos?" Barak rumbled, looking around with his hand on his sword hilt.

  Belgarath shrugged slightly. "It's hard to say. I'd guess that only the top two or three levels are occupied."

  They followed the gallery upward until it turned sharply, and once again there were words written on the wall in the alien script. "Eighth level," Belgarath translated. "Keep going."

  The smell of the slave pens grew stronger as they progressed upward through the succeeding levels.

  "Light ahead," Durnik warned sharply, just before they turned the corner to enter the fourth level.

  "Wait here," Silk breathed and melted around the corner, his dagger held close against his leg.

  The light was dim and seemed to be bobbing slightly, growing gradually brighter as the moments dragged by. "Someone with a torch," Barak muttered.

  The torchlight suddenly flickered, throwing gyrating shadows. Then it grew steady, no longer bobbing. After a few moments, Silk came back, carefully wiping his dagger. "A Murgo," he told them. "I think he was looking for something. The cells up there are still empty."

  "What did you do with him?" Barak asked.

  "I dragged him into one of the cells. They won't stumble over him unless they're looking for him."

  Relg was carefully veiling his eyes.

  "Even that little bit of light?" Durnik asked him.

  "It's the color of it," Relg explained.

  They rounded the corner into the fourth level and started up again. A hundred yards up the gallery a torch was stuck into a crack in the wall, burning steadily. As they approached it, they could see a long smear of fresh blood on the uneven, littered floor.

  Belgarath stopped outside the cell door, scratching at his beard. "What was he wearing?" he asked Silk.

  "One of those hooded robes," Silk replied. "Why?"

  "Go get it."

  Silk looked at him briefly, then nodded. He went back into the cell and came out a moment later carrying a black Murgo robe. He handed it to the old man.

  Belgarath held up the robe, looking critically at the long cut running up the back. "Try not to put such big holes in the rest of them," he told the
little man.

  Silk grinned at him. "Sorry. I guess I got a bit overenthusiastic. I'll be more careful from now on." He glanced at Barak. "Care to join me?" he invited.

  "Naturally. Coming, Mandorallen?"

  The knight nodded gravely, loosening his sword in its sheath. "We'll wait here, then," Belgarath told them. "Be careful, but don't take any longer than you have to."

  The three men moved stealthily on up the gallery toward the third level.

  "Can you guess at the time, father?" Aunt Pol asked quietly after they had disappeared.

  "Several hours after midnight."

  "Will we have enough time left before dawn?"

  "If we hurry."

  "Maybe we should wait out the day here and go up when it gets dark again."

  He frowned. "I don't think so, Pol. Ctuchik's up to something. He knows I'm coming - I've felt that for the last week - but he hasn't made a move of his own yet. Let's not give him any more time than we have to.

  "He's going to fight you, father."

  "It's long overdue anyway," he replied. "Ctuchik and I have been stepping around each other for thousands of years because the time was never just exactly right. Now it's finally come down to this." He looked off into the darkness, his face bleak. "When it starts, I want you to stay out of it, Pol."

  She looked at the grim-faced old man for a long moment, then nodded. "Whatever you say, father," she said.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  THE MURGO ROBE was made of coarse, black cloth and it had a strange red emblem woven into the fabric just over Garion's heart. It smelled of smoke and of something else even more unpleasant. There was a small ragged hole in the robe just under the left armpit, and the cloth around the hole was wet and sticky. Garion's skin cringed away from that wetness.

  They were moving rapidly up through the galleries of the last three levels of the slave pens with the deep-cowled hoods of the Murgo robes hiding their faces. Though the galleries were lighted by sooty torches, they encountered no guards, and the slaves locked behind the pitted iron doors made no sound as they passed. Garion could feel the dreadful fear behind those doors.

  "How do we get up into the city?" Durnik whispered.

  "There's a stairway at the upper end of the top gallery," Silk replied softly.

  "Is it guarded?"

  "Not any more."

  An iron-barred gate, chained and locked, blocked the top of the stairway, but Silk bent and drew a slim metal implement from one boot, probed inside the lock for a few seconds, then grunted with satisfaction as the lock clicked open in his hand. "I'll have a look," he whispered and slipped out.

  Beyond the gate Garion could see the stars and, outlined against them, the looming buildings of Rak Cthol. A scream, agonized and despairing, echoed through the city, followed after a moment by the hollow sound of some unimaginably huge iron gong. Garion shuddered.

  A few moments later, Silk slipped back through the gate. "There doesn't seem to be anybody about," he murmured softly. "Which way do we go?"

  Belgarath pointed. "That way. We'll go along the wall to the Temple."

  "The Temple?" Relg asked sharply.

  "We have to go through it to get to Ctuchik," the old man replied. "We're going to have to hurry. Morning isn't far off."

  Rak Cthol was not like other cities. The vast buildings had little of that separateness that they had in other places. It was as if the Murgos and Grolims who lived here had no sense of personal possession, so that their structures lacked that insularity of individual property to be found among the houses in the cities of the West. There were no streets in the ordinary sense of the word, but rather interconnecting courtyards and corridors that passed between and quite often through the buildings.

  The city seemed deserted as they crept silently through the dark courtyards and shadowy corridors, yet there was a kind of menacing watchfulness about the looming, silent black walls around them. Peculiar-looking turrets jutted from the walls in unexpected places, leaning out over the courtyards, brooding down at them as they passed. Narrow windows stared accusingly at them, and the arched doorways were filled with lurking shadows. An oppressive air of ancient evil lay heavily on Rak Cthol, and the stones themselves seemed almost to gloat as Garion and his friends moved deeper and deeper into the dark maze of the Grolim fortress.

  "Are you sure you know where you're going?" Barak whispered nervously to Belgarath.

  "I've been here before, using the causeway," the old man told him quietly. "I like to keep an eye on Ctuchik from time to time. We got up those stairs. They'll take us to the top of the city wall."

  The stairway was narrow and steep, with massive walls on either side and a vaulted roof overhead. The stone steps were worn by centuries of use. They climbed silently. Another scream echoed through the city, and the huge gong sounded its iron note once more.

  When they emerged from the stairway, they were atop the outer wall. It was as broad as a highway and encircled the entire city. A parapet ran along its outer edge, marking the brink of the dreadful precipice that dropped away to the floor of the rocky wasteland a mile or more below. Once they emerged from the shelter of the buildings, the chill air bit at them, and the black flagstones and rough-hewn blocks of the outer parapet glittered with frost in the icy starlight.

  Belgarath looked at the open stretch lying along the top of the wall ahead of them and at the shadowy buildings looming several hundred yards ahead. "We'd better spread out," he whispered. "Too many people in one place attract attention in Rak Cthol. We'll go across here two at a time. Walk - don't run or crouch down. Try to look as if you belong here. Let's go." He started along the top of the wall with Barak at his side, the two of them walking purposefully, but not appearing to hurry. After a few moments, Aunt Pol and Mandorallen followed.

  "Durnik," Silk whispered. "Garion and I'll go next. You and Relg follow in a minute or so." He peered at Relg's face, shadowed beneath the Murgo hood. "Are you all right?" he asked.

  "As long as I don't look up at the sky," Relg answered tightly. His voice sounded as if it were coming from between clenched teeth.

  "Come along, then, Garion," Silk murmured.

  It required every ounce of Garion's self control to walk at a normal pace across the frosty stones. It seemed somehow that eyes watched from every shadowy building and tower as he and the little Drasnian crossed the open section atop the wall. The air was dead calm and bitterly cold, and the stone blocks of the outer parapet were covered with a lacy filigree of rime frost.

  There was another scream from the Temple lying somewhere ahead. The corner of a large tower jutted out at the end of the open stretch of wall, obscuring the walkway beyond.

  "Wait here a moment," Silk whispered as they stepped gratefully into its shadow and he slipped around the jutting corner.

  Garion stood in the icy dark, straining his ears for any sound. He glanced once toward the parapet. Far out on the desolate wasteland below, a small fire was burning. It twinkled in the dark like a small red star. He tried to imagine how far away it might be.

  Then there was a slight scraping sound somewhere above him. He spun quickly, his hand going to his sword. A shadowy figure dropped from a ledge on the side of the tower several yards over his head and landed with catlike silence on the flagstones directly in front of him. Garion caught a familiar sour, acid reek of stale perspiration.

  "It's been a long time, hasn't it, Garion?" Brill said quietly with an ugly chuckle.

  "Stay back," Garion warned, holding his sword with its point low as Barak had taught him.

  "I knew that I'd catch you alone someday," Brill said, ignoring the sword. He spread his hands wide and crouched slightly, his cast eye gleaming in the starlight.

  Garion backed away, waving his sword threateningly. Brill bounded to one side, and Garion instinctively followed him with the sword point. Then, so fast that Garion could not follow, Brill dodged back and struck his hand down sharply on the boy's forearm. Garion's sword skittered aw
ay across the icy flagstones. Desperately, Garion reached for his dagger.

  Then another shadow flickered in the darkness at the corner of the tower. Brill grunted as a foot caught him solidly in the side. He fell, but rolled quickly across the stones and came back up onto his feet, his stance wide and his hands moving slowly in the air in front of him.

  Silk dropped his Murgo robe behind him, kicked it out of the way, and crouched, his hands also spread wide.

  Brill grinned. "I should have known you were around somewhere, Kheldar."

  "I suppose I should have expected you too, Kordoch," Silk replied. "You always seem to show up."

  Brill flicked a quick hand toward Silk's face, but the little man easily avoided it. "How do you keep getting ahead of us?" he asked, almost conversationally. "That's a habit of yours that's starting to irritate Belgarath." He launched a quick kick at Brill's groin, but the cast-eyed man jumped back agilely.

  Brill laughed shortly. "You people are too tender-hearted with horses," he said. "I've had to ride quite a few of them to death chasing you. How did you get out of that pit?" He sounded interested. "Taur Urgas was furious the next morning."

  "What a shame."

  "He had the guards flayed."

  "I imagine a Murgo looks a bit peculiar without his skin."

  Brill dove forward suddenly, both hands extended, but Silk sidestepped the lunge and smashed his hand sharply down in the middle of Brill's back. Brill grunted again, but rolled clear farther out on the stones atop the wall. "You might be just as good as they say," he admitted grudgingly.

  "Try me, Kordoch," Silk invited, with a nasty grin. He moved out from the wall of the tower, his hands in constant motion. Garion watched the two circling each other with his heart in his mouth.

  Brill jumped again, with both feet lashing out, but Silk dove under him. They both rolled to their feet again. Silk's left hand flashed out, even as he came to his feet, catching Brill high on the head. Brill reeled from the blow, but managed to kick Silk's knee as he spun away. "Your technique's defensive, Kheldar," he grated, shaking his head to clear the effects of Silk's blow. "That's a weakness."