Chapter Twenty-One
THE SOUTH CARAVAN ROUTE wound through a series of high, arid valleys that ran in a generally east-west direction. The surrounding peaks were high - higher probably than the mountains to the west, but their upper slopes were only faintly touched with snow. The clouds overhead turned the sky a dirty slate-gray, but what moisture they held did not fall on this desiccated wilderness of sand, rock, and scrubby thorn. Though it did not snow, it was nonetheless bitterly cold. The wind blew continually, and its edge was like a knife.
They rode east, making good time.
"Belgarath," Barak said back over his shoulder, "there's a Murgo on that ridgeline ahead just to the south of the track."
"I see him."
"What's he doing?"
"Watching us. He won't do anything as long as we stay on the caravan route."
"They always watch like that," Silk stated. "The Murgos like to keep a close watch on everybody in their kingdom."
"That Tolnedran-Kalvor," Barak said. "Do you think he was exaggerating?"
"No," Belgarath replied. "I'd guess that Taur Urgas is looking for an excuse to close the caravan route and expel all the westerners from Cthol Murgos."
"Why?" Durnik asked.
Belgarath shrugged. "The war is coming. Taur Urgas knows that a good number of the merchants who take this route to Rak Goska are spies. He'll be bringing armies up from the south soon, and he'd like to keep their numbers and movements a secret."
"What manner of army could be gathered from so bleak and uninhabited a realm?" Mandorallen asked.
Belgarath looked around at the high, bleak desert. "This is only the little piece of Cthol Murgos we're permitted to see. It stretches a thousand leagues or more to the south, and there are cities down there that no westerner has ever seen - we don't even know their names. Here in north, the Murgos play a very elaborate game to conceal the real Cthol Murgos."
"Is it thy thought then that the war will come soon?"
"Next summer perhaps," Belgarath replied. "Possibly the summer following."
"Are we going to be ready?" Barak asked.
"We're going to try to be."
Aunt Pol made a brief sound of disgust.
"What's wrong?" Garion asked her quickly.
"Vultures," she said. "Filthy brutes."
A dozen heavy-bodied birds were flapping and squawking over something on the ground to one side of the caravan track.
"What are they feeding on?" Durnik asked. "I haven't seen any animals of any kind since we left the top of the escarpment."
"A horse, probably - or a man," Silk said. "There's nothing else up here."
"Would a man be left unburied?" the smith asked.
"Only partially," Silk told him. "Sometimes certain brigands decide that the pickings along the caravan route might be easy. The Murgos give them plenty of time to realize how wrong they were."
Durnik looked at him questioningly.
"The Murgos catch them," Silk explained, "and then they bury them up to the neck and leave them. The vultures have learned that a man in that situation is helpless. Often they get impatient and don't bother to wait for the man to finish dying before they start to eat."
"That's one way to deal with bandits," Barak said, almost approvingly. "Even a Murgo can have a good idea once in a while."
"Unfortunately, Murgos automatically assume that anybody who isn't on the track itself is a bandit."
The vultures brazenly continued to feed, refusing to leave their dreadful feast as the party passed no more than twenty yards from their flapping congregation. Their wings and bodies concealed whatever it was they were feeding on, a fact for which Garion was profoundly grateful. Whatever it was, however, was not very large.
"We should stay quite close to the track when we stop for the night, then," Durnik said, averting his eyes with a shudder.
"That's a very good idea, Durnik," Silk agreed.
The information the Tolnedran merchant had given them about the makeshift fair at the halfway point proved to be accurate. On the afternoon of the third day, they came over a rise and saw a cluster of tents surrounding a solid stone building set to one side of the caravan track. The tents looked small in the distance and they billowed and flapped in the endless wind that swept down the valley.
"What do you think?" Silk asked Belgarath.
"It's late," the old man replied. "We're going to have to stop for the night soon anyway, and it would look peculiar if we didn't stop."
Silk nodded.
"We're going to have to try to keep Relg out of sight, though," Belgarath continued. "Nobody's going to believe we're ordinary merchants if they see an Ulgo with us."
Silk thought a moment. "We'll wrap him in a blanket," he suggested, "and tell anybody who asks that he's sick. People stay away from sick men."
Belgarath nodded. "Can you act sick?" he asked Relg.
"I am sick," the Ulgo said without any attempt at humor. "Is it always this cold up here?" He sneezed.
Aunt Pol pulled her horse over beside his and reached out to put her hand on his forehead.
"Don't touch me." Relg cringed away from her hand.
"Stop that," she told him. She briefly touched his face and looked at him closely. "He's coming down with a cold, father," she announced. "As soon as we get settled, I'll give him something for it. Why didn't you tell me?" she asked the fanatic.
"I will endure what UL chooses to send me," Relg declared. "It's his punishment for my sins."
"No," she told him flatly. "It has nothing to do with sin or punishment. It's a cold - nothing more."
"Am I going to die?" Relg asked calmly.
"Of course not. Haven't you ever had a cold before?"
"No. I've never been sick in my life."
"You won't be able to say that again," Silk said lightly, pulling a blanket out of one of the packs and handing it to him. "Wrap this around your shoulders and pull it up over your head. Try to look like you're suffering."
"I am," Relg said, starting to cough.
"But you have to look like it," Silk told him. "Think about sin - that ought to make you look miserable."
"I think about sin all the time," Relg replied, still coughing.
"I know," Silk said, "but try to think about it a little harder."
They rode down the hill toward the collection of tents with the dry, icy wind whipping at them as they rode. Very few of the assembled merchants were outside their tents, and those who were moved quickly about their tasks in the biting chill.
"We should stop by the resupply station first, I suppose," Silk suggested, gesturing toward the square stone building squatting among the tents. "That would look more natural. Let me handle things."
"Silk, you mangy Drasnian thief!" a coarse voice roared from a nearby tent.
Silk's eyes widened slightly, and then he grinned. "I seem to recognize the squeals of a certain Nadrak hog," he said, loud enough to be heard by the man in the tent.
A rangy Nadrak in a belted, ankle-length, black felt overcoat and a snug-fitting fur cap strode out of the tent. He had coarse, black hair and a thin, scraggly beard. His eyes had the peculiar angularity to them that was a characteristic of all Angaraks; but unlike the dead eyes of the Murgos, this Nadrak's eyes were alive with a kind of wary friendship. "Haven't they caught you yet, Silk?" he demanded raucously. "I was sure that by now someone would have peeled off your hide."
"Drunk as usual, I see." Silk grinned viciously. "How many days has it been this time, Yarblek?"
"Who counts?" The Nadrak laughed, swaying slightly on his feet. "What are you doing in Cthol Murgos, Silk? I thought your fat king needed you in Gar og Nadrak."
"I was getting to be a little too well-known on the streets of Yar Nadrak," Silk replied. "It was getting to the point that people were avoiding me."
"Now I wonder just why that could be," Yarblek retorted with heavy sarcasm. "You cheat at trade, you switch dice, you make free with other men's wives, and you're a
spy. That shouldn't be any reason for men not to admire your good points - whatever they are."
"Your sense of humor's as overpowering as ever, Yarblek."
"It's my only failing," the slightly tipsy Nadrak admitted. "Get down off that horse, Silk. Come inside my tent and we'll get drunk together. Bring your friends." He lurched back inside the tent.
"An old acquaintance," Silk explained quickly, sliding out of his saddle.
"Can he be trusted?" Barak asked suspiciously.
"Not entirely, but he's all right. He's not a bad fellow, really - for a Nadrak. He'll know everything that's going on, and if he's drunk enough, we might be able to get some useful information out of him."
"Get in here, Silk," Yarblek roared from inside his gray felt tent.
"Let's see what he has to say," Belgarath said.
They all dismounted, tied their horses to a picket line at the side of the Nadrak's tent, and trooped inside. The tent was large, and the floor and walls were covered with thick crimson carpets. An oil lamp hung from the ridgepole, and an iron brazier shimmered out waves of heat.
Yarblek was sitting cross-legged on the carpeting at the back of the tent, with a large black keg conveniently beside him. "Come in. Come in," he said brusquely. "Close the flap. You're letting out all the heat."
"This is Yarblek," Silk said by way of introduction, "an adequate merchant and a notorious drunkard. We've known each other for a long time now."
"My tent is yours." Yarblek hiccuped indifferently. "It's not much of a tent, but it's yours anyway. There are cups over there in that pile of things by my saddle - some of them are even clean. Let's all have a drink."
"This is Mistress Pol, Yarblek," Silk introduced her.
"Good-looking woman," Yarblek observed, looking at her boldly. "Forgive me for not getting up, Mistress, but I feel a bit giddy at the moment - probably something I ate."
"Of course," she agreed with a dry little smile. "A man should always be careful about what he puts in his stomach."
"I've made that exact point myself a thousand times." He squinted at her as she pulled back her hood and unfastened her cape. "That's a remarkably handsome woman, Silk," he declared. "I don't suppose you'd care to sell her."
"You couldn't afford me, Yarblek," she told him without seeming to take the slightest offense.
Yarblek stared at her and then roared with laughter. "By One-Eye's nose, I'd bet that I couldn't, at that - and you've probably got a dagger somewhere under your clothes, too. You'd slice open my belly if I tried to steal you, wouldn't you?"
"Naturally."
"What a woman!" Yarblek chortled. "Can you dance, too?"
"Like you've never seen before, Yarblek," she replied. "I could turn your body to water."
Yarblek's eyes burned. "After we all get drunk, maybe you'll dance for us."
"We'll see," she said with a hint of promise. Garion was stunned at this uncharacteristic boldness. It was obviously the way Yarblek expected a woman to behave, but Garion wondered just when Aunt Pol had learned the customs of the Nadraks so well that she could respond without the slightest hint of embarrassment.
"This is Mister Wolf," Silk said, indicating Belgarath.
"Never mind names." Yarblek waved his hand. "I'd just forget them anyway." He did, however, look rather shrewdly at each of them. "As a matter of fact," he continued, sounding suddenly not nearly as drunk as he appeared, "it might be just as well if I didn't know your names. What a man doesn't know, he can't reveal, and you're too well-mixed a group to be in stinking Cthol Murgos on honest business. Fetch yourselves cups. This keg is almost full, and I've got another chilling out back of the tent."
At Silk's gesture, they each took a cup from the heap of cookware piled beside a well-worn saddle and joined Yarblek on the carpet near the keg.
"I'd pour for you like a proper host," Yarblek told them, "but I spill too much that way. Dip out your own."
Yarblek's ale was a very dark brown and had a rich, almost fruity flavor.
"Interesting taste," Barak said politely.
"My brewer chops dried apples into his vats," the Nadrak replied. "It smooths out some of the bite." He turned to Silk. "I thought you didn't like Murgos."
"I don't."
"What are you doing in Cthol Murgos, then?"
Silk shrugged. "Business."
"Whose? Yours or Rhodar's?"
Silk winked at him.
"I thought as much. I wish you luck, then. I'd even offer to help, but I'd probably better keep my nose out of it. Murgos distrust us even more than they distrust you Alorns - not that I can really blame them. Any Nadrak worth the name would go ten leagues out of his way for the chance to cut a Murgo's throat."
"Your affection for your cousins touches my heart." Silk grinned.
Yarblek scowled. "Cousins!" he spat. "If it weren't for the Grolims, we'd have exterminated the whole cold-blooded race generations ago." He dipped out another cup of ale, lifted it and said, "Confusion to the Murgos."
"I think we've found something we can drink to together," Barak said with a broad smile. "Confusion to the Murgos."
"And may Taur Urgas grow boils on his behind," Yarblek added. He drank deeply, scooped another cupful of ale from the open keg and drank again. "I'm a little drunk," he admitted.
"We'd never have guessed," Aunt Pol told him.
"I like you, girl." Yarblek grinned at her. "I wish I could afford to buy you. I don't suppose you'd consider running away?"
She sighed a mocking little sigh. "No," she refused. "I'm afraid not. That gives a woman a bad reputation, you know."
"Very true," Yarblek agreed owlishly. He shook his head sadly. "As I was saying," he went on, "I'm a little drunk. I probably shouldn't say anything about this, but it's not a good time for westerners to be in Cthol Murgos - Alorns particularly. I've been hearing some strange things lately. Word's been filtering out of Rak Cthol that Murgoland is to be purged of outsiders. Taur Urgas wears the crown and plays king in Rak Goska, but the old Grolim at Rak Cthol has his hand around Taur Urgas' heart. The king of the Murgos knows that one squeeze from Ctuchik will leave his throne empty."
"We met a Tolnedran a few leagues west of here who said the same sort of thing," Silk said seriously. "He told us that merchants from the West were being arrested all over Rak Goska on false charges."
Yarblek nodded. "That's only the first step. Murgos are always predictable - they have so little imagination. Taur Urgas isn't quite ready to offend Ran Borune openly by butchering every western merchant in the kingdom, but it's getting closer. Rak Goska's probably a closed city by now. Taur Urgas is free to turn his attention to the outlands. I'd imagine that's why he's coming here."
"He's what?" Silk's face paled visibly.
"I thought you knew," Yarblek told him. "Taur Urgas is marching toward the frontier with his army behind him. My guess is that he plans to close the border."
"How far away is he?" Silk demanded.
"I was told that he was seen this morning not five leagues from here," Yarblek said. "What's wrong?"
"Taur Urgas and I have had some serious fallings out," Silk answered quickly, his face filled with consternation. "I can't be here when he arrives." He jumped to his feet.
"Where are you going?" Belgarath asked quickly.
"Some place safe. I'll catch up with you later." He turned then and bolted out of the tent. A moment later they heard the pounding of his horse's hooves.
"Do you want me to go with him?" Barak asked Belgarath.
"You'd never catch him."
"I wonder what he did to Taur Urgas," Yarblek mused. He chuckled then. "It must have been something pretty awful, the way the little thief ran out of here."
"Is it safe for him to go away from the caravan track?" Garion asked, remembering the vultures at their grisly feast beside the trail.
"Don't worry about Silk," Yarblek replied confidently.
From a great distance away, a slow thudding sound began to intrude itself.
Yarblek's eyes narrowed with hate. "It looks like Silk left just in time," he growled.
The thudding became louder and turned into a hollow, booming sound. Dimly, behind the booming, they could hear a kind of groaning chant of hundreds of voices in a deep, minor key.
"What's that?" Durnik asked.
"Taur Urgas," Yarblek answered and spat. "That's the war song of the king of the Murgos."
"War?" Mandorallen demanded sharply.
"Taur Urgas is always at war," Yarblek replied with heavy contempt.
"Even when there isn't anybody to be at war with. He sleeps in his armor, even in his own palace. It makes him smelly, but all Murgos stink anyway, so it doesn't really make any difference. Maybe I'd better go see what he's up to." He got heavily to his feet. "Wait here," he told them. "This is a Nadrak tent, and there are certain courtesies expected between Angaraks. His soldiers won't come in here, so you'll be safe as long as you stay inside." He lurched toward the door of the tent, an expression of icy hatred on his face.
The chanting and the measured drumbeats grew louder. Shrill fifes picked up a discordant, almost jigging accompaniment, and then there was a sudden blaring of deep-throated horns.
"What do you think, Belgarath?" Barak rumbled. "This Yarblek seems like a good enough fellow, but he's still an Angarak. One word from him, and we'll have a hundred Murgos in here with us."
"He's right, father," Aunt Pol agreed. "I know Nadraks well enough to know that Yarblek wasn't nearly as drunk as he pretended to be."
Belgarath pursed his lips. "Maybe it isn't too good an idea to gamble all that much on the fact that Nadraks despise Murgos," he conceded. "We might be doing Yarblek an injustice, but perhaps it would be better just to slip away before Taur Urgas has time to put guards around the whole place anyway. There's no way of knowing how long he's going to stay here; and once he settles in, we might have trouble leaving."
Durnik pulled aside the red carpeting that hung along the back wall, reached down, and tugged out several tent pegs. He lifted the canvas. "I think we can crawl out here."
"Let's go, then," Belgarath decided.