Enchanters' End Game

  Garion’s edginess at this particular time came from a very specific source. He was afraid. There was no point in trying to conceal that fact from himself. The cryptic words of the Mrin Codex had been explained to him in precise detail. He was riding toward a meeting that had been ordained since the beginning of time, and there was absolutely no way he could avoid it. The meeting was the end result of not one, but two distinct Prophecies, and even if he could persuade one of them that there had been a mistake someplace, the other would drive him to the confrontation without mercy or the slightest consideration for his personal feelings.

  ‘I think you’re missing the point, Ambar,’ Mulger was saying to Silk with that kind of acid precision some men use when talking to someone they truly despise. ‘My patriotism or lack of it has nothing to do with the matter. The well-being of Drasnia depends on trade, and if you people in the Foreign Service keep hiding your activities by posing as merchants, it won’t be long before an honest Drasnian isn’t welcome anywhere.’ Mulger, with that instinct that seemed inborn in all Drasnians, had instantly recognized the fact that Silk was not what he pretended to be.

  ‘Oh, come now, Mulger,’ Silk replied with an airy condescension, ‘don’t be so naïve. Every kingdom in the world conceals its intelligence activities in exactly the same way. The Tolnedrans do it; the Murgos do it; even the Thulls do it. What do you want me to do – walk around with a sign on my chest reading “spy”?’

  ‘Frankly, Ambar, I don’t care what you do,’ Mulger retorted, his lean face hardening. ‘All I can say is that I’m getting very tired of being watched everyplace I go, just because you people can’t be trusted.’

  Silk shrugged with an impudent grin. ‘It’s the way the world is, Mulger. You might as well get used to it, because it’s not going to change.’

  Mulger glared at the rat-faced little man helplessly, then turned abruptly and rode back to keep company with his mules.

  ‘Aren’t you pushing it a little?’ Belgarath suggested, lifting his head from the apparent doze in which he usually rode. ‘If you irritate him enough, he’ll denounce you to the border guards, and we’ll never get into Gar og Nadrak.’

  ‘Mulger’s not going to say a word, old friend,’ Silk assured him. ‘If he does, he’ll be held for investigation, too, and there’s not a merchant alive who doesn’t have a few things concealed in his packs that aren’t supposed to be there.’

  ‘Why don’t you just leave him alone?’ Belgarath asked.

  ‘It gives me something to do,’ Silk replied with a shrug. ‘Otherwise I’d have to look at the scenery, and eastern Drasnia bores me.’

  Belgarath grunted sourly, pulled his gray hood up over his head, and settled back into his nap.

  Garion returned to his melancholy thoughts. The gorse bushes which covered the rolling moors had a depressing gray-green color to them, and the North Caravan Route wound like a dusty white scar across them. The sky had been overcast for nearly two weeks, though there was no hint of moisture in the clouds. They plodded along through a dreary, shadowless world toward the stark mountains looming on the horizon ahead.

  It was the unfairness of it all that upset Garion the most. He had never asked for any of this. He did not want to be a sorcerer. He did not want to be the Rivan King. He was not even sure that he really wanted to marry Princess Ce’Nedra – although he was of two minds about that. The little Imperial Princess could be – usually when she wanted something – absolutely adorable. Most of the time, however, she did not want anything, and her true nature emerged. If he had consciously sought any of this, he could have accepted the duty which lay on him with a certain amount of resignation. He had been given no choice in the matter, though, and he found himself wanting to demand of the uncaring sky, ‘Why me?’

  He rode on beside his dozing grandfather with only the murmuring song of the Orb of Aldur for company, and even that was a source of irritation. The Orb, which stood on the pommel of the great sword strapped to his back, sang to him endlessly with a kind of silly enthusiasm. It might be all very well for the Orb to exult about the impending meeting with Torak, but it was Garion who was going to have to face the Dragon-God of Angarak, and it was Garion who was going to have to do all the bleeding. He felt that the unrelieved cheerfulness of the Orb was – all things considered – in very poor taste, to say the least.

  The border between Drasnia and Gar og Nadrak straddled the North Caravan Route in a narrow, rocky gap where two garrisons, one Drasnian and one Nadrak, faced each other across a simple gate that consisted of a single, horizontal pole. By itself, the pole was an insubstantial barrier. Symbolically, however, it was more intimidating than the gates of Vo Mimbre or Tol Honeth. On one side of the gate stood the West; on the other, the East. With a single step, one could move from one world into a totally different one, and Garion wished with all his being that he did not have to take that step.

  As Silk had predicted, Mulger said nothing about his suspicions to either the Drasnian pikemen or the leather-clad Nadrak soldiers at the border, and they passed without incident into the mountains of Gar og Nadrak. Once it passed the border, the caravan route climbed steeply up a narrow gorge beside a swiftly tumbling mountain stream. The rock walls of the gorge were sheer, black, and oppressive. The sky overhead narrowed to a dirty gray ribbon, and the clanging mule bells echoed back from the rocks to accompany the rush and pounding gurgle of the stream.

  Belgarath awoke and looked around, his eyes alert. He gave Silk a quick, sidelong glance that cautioned the little man to keep his mouth shut, then cleared his throat. ‘We want to thank you, worthy Mulger, and to wish you good luck in your dealings here.’

  Mulger looked at the old sorcerer sharply, his eyes questioning.

  ‘We’ll be leaving you at the head of this gorge,’ Belgarath continued smoothly, his face bland. ‘Our business is off that way.’ He gestured rather vaguely.

  Mulger grunted. ‘I don’t want to know anything about it,’ he declared.

  ‘You don’t, really,’ Belgarath assured him. ‘And please don’t take Ambar’s remarks too seriously. He has a comic turn of mind and he says things he doesn’t always mean, because he enjoys irritating people. Once you get to know him, he’s not quite so bad.’

  Mulger gave Silk a long, hard look and let it pass without comment. ‘Good luck in whatever it is you’re doing,’ he said grudgingly, forced to say it more out of courtesy than out of any genuine good feeling. ‘You and the young man weren’t bad traveling companions.’

  ‘We are in your debt, worthy Mulger,’ Silk added with mocking extravagance. ‘Your hospitality has been exquisite.’

  Mulger looked directly at Silk again. ‘I don’t really like you, Ambar,’ he said bluntly. ‘Why don’t we just let it go at that?’

  ‘I’m crushed,’ Silk grinned at him.

  ‘Let it lie,’ Belgarath growled.

  ‘I made every effort to win him over,’ Silk protested.

  Belgarath turned his back on him.

  ‘I really did.’ Silk appealed to Garion, his eyes brimming with mock sincerity.

  ‘I don’t believe you either,’ Garion told him.

  Silk sighed. ‘Nobody understands me,’ he complained. Then he laughed and rode on up the forge, whistling happily to himself.

  At the head of the gorge, they left Mulger and struck off to the left of the caravan route through a jumble of rock and stunted trees. At the crest of a stony ridge, they stopped to watch the slow progress of the mules until they were out of sight.

  ‘Where are we headed?’ Silk asked, squinting up at the clouds scudding past overhead. ‘I thought we were going to Yar Gurak.’

  ‘We are,’ Belgarath replied, scratching at his beard, ‘but we’ll circle around and come at the town from the other side. Mulger’s opinions make traveling with him just a bit chancy. He might let something slip at the wrong time. Besides, Garion and I have something to take care of before we get there.’ The old man looked around. ‘Over there ought
to do,’ he said, pointing at a shallow green dale, concealed on the far side of the ridge. He led them down into the dale and dismounted.

  Silk, leading their single packhorse, pulled up beside a small pool of spring water and tied the horses to a dead snag standing at its edge.

  ‘What is it that we have to do, Grandfather?’ Garion asked, sliding out of his saddle.

  ‘That sword of yours is a trifle obvious,’ the old man told him. ‘Unless we want to spend the whole trip answering questions, we’re going to have to do something about it.’

  ‘Are you going to make it invisible?’ Silk asked hopefully.

  ‘In a manner of speaking,’ Belgarath answered. ‘Open your mind to the Orb, Garion. Just let it talk to you.’

  Garion frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Just relax. The Orb will do the rest. It’s very excited about you, so don’t pay too much attention to it if it starts making suggestions. It has a severely limited understanding of the real world. Just relax and let your mind sort of drift. I’ve got to talk to it, and I can only do that through you. It won’t listen to anybody else.’

  Garion leaned back against a tree; in a moment he found his mind filled with all manner of peculiar images. The world he perceived in that imagining was tinged over with a faint blue haze, and everything seemed angular, as if constructed out of the flat planes and sharp edges of a crystal. He caught a vivid picture of himself, flaming sword in hand, riding at great speed with whole hordes of faceless men fleeing out of his path. Belgarath’s voice sounded sharply in his mind then. ‘Stop that.’ The words, he realized, were not directed at him, but instead at the Orb itself. Then the old man’s voice dropped to a murmur, instructing, explaining something. The responses of that other, crystalline awareness seemed a trifle petulant; but eventually there seemed to be an agreement of some kind, and then Garion’s mind cleared.

  Belgarath was shaking his head with a rueful expression. ‘It’s almost like talking to a child sometimes,’ he said. ‘It has no conception of numbers, and it can’t even begin to comprehend the meaning of the word danger.’

  ‘It’s still there,’ Silk noted, sounding a bit disappointed. ‘I can still see the sword.’

  ‘That’s because you know it’s there,’ Belgarath told him. ‘Other people will overlook it.’

  ‘How can you overlook something that big?’ Silk objected.

  ‘It’s very complicated,’ Belgarath replied. ‘The Orb is simply going to encourage people not to see it – or the sword. If they look very closely, they might realize that Garion’s carrying something on his back, but they won’t be curious enough about it to try to find out what it is. As a matter of fact, quite a few people won’t even notice Garion himself.’

  ‘Are you trying to say that Garion’s invisible?’

  ‘No. He’s just sort of unremarkable for the time being. Let’s move on. Night comes on quickly up in these mountains.’

  Yar Gurak was perhaps the ugliest town Garion had ever seen. It was strung out on either side of a roiling yellow creek, and muddy, unpaved streets ran up the steep slopes of the cut the stream had gouged out of the hills. The sides of the cut beyond the town had been stripped of all vegetation. There were shafts running back into the hillsides, and great, rooted-out excavations. There were springs among the diggings, and they trickled muddy water down the slopes to pollute the creek. The town had a slapdash quality about it, and all the buildings seemed somewhat temporary. Construction was, for the most part, log and uncut rock, and several of the houses had been finished off with canvas.

  The streets teemed with lanky, dark-faced Nadraks, many of whom were obviously drunk. A nasty brawl erupted out of a tavern door as they entered the town, and they were forced to stop while perhaps two dozen Nadraks rolled about in the mud, trying with a fair amount of success to incapacitate or even maim each other.

  The sun was going down as they found an inn at the end of a muddy street. It was a large, square building with the main floor constructed of stone, a second storey built of logs, and stables attached to the rear. They put up their horses, took a room for the night, and then entered the barnlike common room in search of supper. The benches in the common room were a bit unsteady, and the tabletops were grease-smeared and littered with crumbs and spilled food. Oil lamps hung smoking on chains, and the smell of cooking cabbage was overpowering. A fair number of merchants from various parts of the world sat at their evening meal in the room – wary-eyed men in tight little groups, with walls of suspicion drawn around them.

  Belgarath, Silk, and Garion sat down at an unoccupied table and ate the stew brought to them in wooden bowls by a tipsy servingman in a greasy apron. When they had finished, Silk glanced at the open doorway leading into the noisy taproom and then looked inquiringly at Belgarath.

  The old man shook his head. ‘Better not,’ he said. ‘Nadraks are a high-strung people, and relations with the West are a little tense just now. There’s no point in asking for trouble.’

  Silk nodded his glum agreement and led the way up the stairs at the back of the inn to the room they had taken for the night. Garion held up their guttering candle and looked dubiously at the log-frame bunks standing against the walls of the room. The bunks had rope springs and mattresses stuffed with straw; they looked lumpy and not very clean. The noise from the taproom below was loud and raucous.

  ‘I don’t think we’re going to get much sleep tonight,’ he observed.

  ‘Mining towns aren’t like farm villages,’ Silk pointed out. ‘Farmers feel the need for decorum – even when they’re drunk. Miners tend on the whole to be somewhat rowdier.’

  Belgarath shrugged. ‘They’ll quiet down in a bit. Most of them will be unconscious long before midnight.’ He turned to Silk. ‘As soon as the shops open up in the morning, I want you to get us some different clothing – used, preferably. If we look like gold hunters, nobody’s going to pay very much attention to us. Get a pick handle and a couple of rock hammers. We’ll tie them to the outside of the pack on our spare horse for show.’

  ‘I get the feeling you’ve done this before.’

  ‘From time to time. It’s a useful disguise. Gold hunters are crazy to begin with, so people aren’t surprised if they show up in strange places.’ The old man laughed shortly. ‘I even found gold once – a vein as thick as your arm.’

  Silk’s face grew immediately intent. ‘Where?’

  Belgarath shrugged. ‘Off that way somewhere,’ he replied with a vague gesture. ‘I forget exactly.’

  ‘Belgarath,’ Silk objected with a note of anguish in his voice.

  ‘Don’t get sidetracked,’ Belgarath told him. ‘Let’s get some sleep. I want to be out of here as early as possible tomorrow morning.’

  The overcast which had lingered for weeks cleared off during the night; when Garion awoke, the new-risen sun streamed golden through the dirty window. Belgarath was seated at the rough table on the far side of the room, studying a parchment map, and Silk had already left.

  ‘I thought for a while that you were going to sleep past noon,’ the old man said as Garion sat up and stretched.

  ‘I had trouble getting to sleep last night,’ Garion replied. ‘It was a little noisy downstairs.’

  ‘Nadraks are like that.’

  A sudden thought occurred to Garion. ‘What do you think Aunt Pol is doing just now?’ he asked.

  ‘Sleeping, probably.’

  ‘Not this late.’

  ‘It’s much earlier where she is.’

  ‘I don’t follow that.’

  ‘Riva’s fifteen hundred leagues west of here,’ Belgarath explained. ‘The sun won’t get that far for several hours yet.’

  Garion blinked. ‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ he admitted.

  ‘I didn’t think you had.’

  The door opened, and Silk came in, carrying several bundles and wearing an outraged expression. He threw his bundles down and stamped to the window, muttering curses under his breath.
br />   ‘What’s got you so worked up?’ Belgarath asked mildly.

  ‘Would you look at this?’ Silk waved a piece of parchment at the old man.

  ‘What’s the problem?’ Belgarath took the parchment and read it.

  ‘That whole business was settled years ago,’ Silk declared in an irritated voice. ‘What are these things doing, still being circulated?’

  ‘The description is colorful,’ Belgarath noted.

  ‘Did you see that?’ Silk sounded mortally offended. He turned to Garion. ‘Do I look like a weasel to you?’

  ‘—an ill-favored, weasel-faced man,’ Belgarath read, ‘shifty-eyed and with a long, pointed nose. A notorious cheat at dice.’

  ‘Do you mind?’

  ‘What’s this all about?’ Garion asked.

  ‘I had a slight misunderstanding with the authorities some years ago,’ Silk explained deprecatingly. ‘Nothing all that serious, actually – but they’re still circulating that thing.’ He gestured angrily at the parchment Belgarath was still reading with an amused expression. ‘They’ve even gone so far as to offer a reward.’ He considered for a moment. ‘I’ll have to admit that the sum is flattering, though,’ he added.

  ‘Did you get the things I sent you after?’ Belgarath asked.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Let’s change clothes, then, and leave before your unexpected celebrity attracts a crowd.’

  The worn Nadrak clothing was made mostly of leather – snug black trousers, tight-fitting vests, and short-sleeved linen tunics.

  ‘I didn’t bother with the boots,’ Silk said. ‘Nadrak boots are pretty uncomfortable – probably since it hasn’t occurred to them yet that there’s a difference between the right foot and the left.’ He settled a pointed felt cap at a jaunty angle. ‘What do you think?’ he asked, striking a pose.