King of the Murgos
Page 18"What sort of information did you sell him?"
"It went sort of like this," Beldin said. He stooped a bit more, deliberately exaggerating his deformity, and his face took on an expression of vapid imbecility. "An' it please yer honor," he said in a squeaky voice dripping with servile stupidity, "I hears that you wants to find some people an' that you says you'll pay to know where they be. I seed the people yer lookin fer, an' I kin tell you where they was—if you gimme enough money. How much was you willin' to pay?"
Delvor laughed delightedly. "Naradas swallowed it whole. I took Master Beldin to him and told him that I'd found someone who knew about the people he was looking for. We agreed to a price, and then your friend here gulled him completely."
"Which way did you send him?" Belgarath asked.
"North." Beldin shrugged. "I told him that I'd seen you camped by the roadside up in the Arendish forest—that one of the members of your party had fallen sick and that you'd stopped to nurse him back to health."
"Wasn't he at all suspicious?" Silk asked.
Delvor shook his head. "The thing that makes people suspicious is help that comes for no particular reason. I gave Naradas every reason to believe that I was sincere. I cheated Master Beldin—outrageously. Naradas gave him a few silver coins for his information. My price, however, was much higher."
"Brilliant," Silk murmured admiringly.
"There's something you ought to know about White Eyes, though," Beldin told Belgarath. "He's a Mallorean Grolim. I didn't probe into him too hard, because I didn't want him to catch what I was doing, but I was able to get that much. He's got a great deal of power, so watch out for him."
Beldin shook his head. "I pulled back as soon as I found out what he was." The hunchback's face grew bleak. "Be careful about this one, Belgarath. He's very dangerous."
Belgarath's face grew grim. "So am I, Beldin," he said.
"I know, but there are some things you won't do. Naradas doesn't feel that kind of restraint."
CHAPTER FOUR
They rode south under clearing skies for the next six days. A cold wind bent the winter-browned grass at the sides of the road, and the rolling plain of southern Arendia lay dead and sere beneath a chill blue sky. They passed an occasional mud-and-wattle village where ragged serfs clenched themselves to endure yet another winter and more infrequently a rearing stone keep where a proud Mimbrate baron kept a watchful eye on his neighbors.The Great West Road, like all roads that formed a part of the Tolnedran highway system, was patrolled by scarlet-cloaked Imperial Legionnaires. Garion and his friends also encountered an occasional merchant traveling northward with wary eyes and accompanied by burly hirelings whose hands never strayed far from their weapons.
They reached the River Arend on a frosty midmorning and looked across the sparkling ford at the Forest of Vordue in northern Tolnedra. "Did you want to stop at Vo Mimbre?" Silk asked Belgarath.
The old man shook his head. "Mandorallen and Lelldorin have probably already advised Korodullin about what happened in Drasnia, and I'm not really in the mood for three or four days of speeches filled with thee's and thou's and forasmuches. Besides, I want to get to Tol Honeth as soon as possible."
As they splashed through the shallow waters of the ford, Garion remembered something. "Will we have to stop at that customs station?" he asked.
"Just don't get too creative."
"Nothing could have been further from my mind, Belgarath. All I want is a chance to try these out." He indicated the seedy clothing he wore.
"I've been sort of wondering what you had in mind when you picked out your wardrobe," Durnik said.
Silk gave him a sly wink.
They rode up out of the ford and on into the Forest of Vordue with its neatly spaced trees and groomed undergrowth. They had gone no more than a league when they came to the whitewashed building that housed the customs station. One corner of the long, shed like structure showed signs of a recent fire, and the red-tile roof was badly soot-darkened at that end. A half-dozen slovenly soldiers of the customs service were huddled in the muddy yard about a small open fire, drinking cheap wine to ward off the chill. One of them, a stubble-faced man in a patched cloak and rusty breastplate, indolently rose, stepped into the middle of the road, and held up one beefy hand. "That's as far as you go," he declared. "Take your horses over there beside the building and open your packs for inspection."
Silk pushed forward. "Of course, sergeant," he replied in an obsequious, fawning tone. "We have nothing to hide."
"We'll decide that," the unshaven soldier said, swaying slightly as he barred their path.
The customs agent emerged from the station with a blanket wrapped about his shoulders. It was the same stout man whom they had encountered years before when they had passed this way during their pursuit of Zedar and the stolen Orb. On their previous meeting, however, there had been a certain smug self-satisfaction about him. Now his florid face bore the discontented expression of a man who lives with the conviction that life has somehow cheated him. "What do you have to declare?" he demanded brusquely.
The paunchy agent peered at the little man. "I think we've met before, haven't we? Aren't you Radek of Boktor?"
"The same, your Excellency. You have an extremely good memory."
"In my business, you have to. How did you do with your Sendarian woolens that time?"
Silk's face grew melancholy. "Not nearly as well as I'd hoped. The weather broke before I got to Tol Honeth, so the price was less than half of what it should have been."
"I'm sorry to hear that," the agent said perfunctorily. "Would you mind opening your packs?"
"All we have is food and spare clothing." The little Drasnian was actually sniveling.
"It's been my experience that people sometimes forget that they're carrying things of value. Open the packs, Radek."
"Anything you say, Excellency." Silk clambered down from his horse and began unbuckling the straps on the packs.