"You'll be my reeve," she said. "The thievery usually associated with the position should suit you."
Silk bowed ironically.
"And I?" Barak said, grinning openly.
"My man-at-arms," she said. "I doubt that any would believe you to be a dancing master. Just stand around looking dangerous."
"What of me, Aunt Pol?" Garion asked. "What do I do?"
"You can be my page."
"What does a page do?"
"You fetch things for me."
"I've always done that. Is that what it's called?"
"Don't be impertinent. You also answer doors and announce visitors; and when I'm melancholy, you may sing to me."
"Sing?" he said incredulously. "Me?"
"It's customary."
"You wouldn't make me do that, would you, Aunt Pol?"
"Your Grace," she corrected.
"You won't be very gracious if you have to listen to me sing," he warned. "My voice isn't very good."
"You'll do just fine, dear," she said.
"And I've already been appointed to your Grace's chamberlain," Wolf said.
"My chief steward," she told him. "Manager of my estates and keeper of my purse."
"Somehow I knew that would be part of it."
There was a timid rap at the door.
"See who that is, Garion," Aunt Pol said.
When he opened the door, Garion found a young girl with light brown hair in a sober dress and starched apron and cap standing outside. She had very large brown eyes that looked at him apprehensively.
"Yes?" he asked.
"I've been sent to wait upon the duchess," she said in a low voice.
"Your maid has arrived, your Grace," Garion announced.
"Splendid," Aunt Pol said. "Come in, child."
The girl entered the room.
"What a pretty thing you are," Aunt Pol said.
"Thank you, my Lady," the girl answered with a brief curtsy and a rosy blush.
"And what is your name?"
"I am called Donia, my Lady."
"A lovely name," Aunt Pol said. "Now to important matters. Is there a bath on the premises?"
It was still snowing the next morning. The roofs of nearby houses were piled high with white, and the narrow streets were deep with it.
"I think we're close to the end of our search," Mister Wolf said as he stared intently out through the rippled glass of the window in the room with the tapestries.
"It's unlikely that the one we're after would stay in Camaar for long," Silk said.
"Very unlikely," Wolf agreed, "but once we've found his trail, we'll be able to move more rapidly. Let's go into the city and see if I'm right."
After Mister Wolf and Silk had left, Garion sat for a while talking with Donia, who seemed to be about his own age. Although she was not quite as pretty as Zubrette, Garion found her soft voice and huge brown eyes extremely attractive. Things were going along well between them until Aunt Pol's dressmaker arrived and Donia's presence was required in the chamber where the Duchess of Erat was being fitted for her new gowns.
Since Durnik, obviously ill at ease in the luxurious surroundings of their chambers, had adjourned to the stables after breakfast, Garion was left in the company of the giant Barak, who worked patiently with a small stone, polishing a nick out of the edge of his sword - a memento of the skirmish in Muros. Garion had never been wholly comfortable with the huge, red-bearded man. Barak spoke rarely, and there seemed to be a kind of hulking menace about him. So it was that Garion spent the morning examining the tapestries on the walls of the sitting room. The tapestries depicted knights in full armor and castles on hilltops and strangely angular-looking maidens moping about in gardens.
"Arendish," Barak said, directly behind him. Garion jumped. The huge man had moved up so quietly that Garion had not heard him.
"How can you tell?" Garion asked politely.
"The Arends have a fondness for tapestry," Barak rumbled, "and the weaving of pictures occupies their women while the men are off denting each other's armor."
"Do they really wear all that?" Garion asked, pointing at a heavily armored knight pictured on the tapestry.
"Oh yes." Barak laughed. "That and more. Even their horses wear armor. It's a silly way to make war."
Garion scuffed his shoe on the carpet.
"Is this Arendish too?" he asked.
Barak shook his head.
"Mallorean," he said.
"How did it get here all the way from MaIlorea?" Garion asked. "I've heard that Mallorea's all the way on the other end of the world."
"It's a goodly way off," Barak agreed, "but a merchant would go twice as far to make a profit. Such goods as this commonly move along the North Caravan Route out of Gar og Nadrak to Boktor. Mallorean carpets are prized by the wealthy. I don't much care for them myself, since I'm not fond of anything that has to do with the Angaraks."
"How many kinds of Angaraks are there?" Garion asked. "I know there are Murgos and Thulls, and I've heard stories about the Battle of Vo Mimbre and all, but I don't know much about them really."
"There are five tribes of them," Barak said, sitting back down and resuming his polishing, "Murgos and Thulls, Nadraks and Malloreans, and of course the Grolims. They live in the four kingdoms of the east Mallorea, Gar og Nadrak, Mishrak ac Thull and Cthol Murgos."
"Where do the Grolims live?"
"They have no special place," Barak replied grimly. "The Grolims are the priests of Torak One-eye and are everywhere in the lands of the Angaraks. They're the ones who perform the sacrifices to Torak. Grolim knives have spilled more Angarak blood than a dozen Vo Mimbres."
Garion shuddered.
"Why should Torak take such pleasure in the slaughter of his own people?" he asked.
"Who can say?" Barak shrugged. "He's a twisted and evil God. Some believe that he was made mad when he used the Orb of Aldur to crack the world and the Orb repaid him by burning out his eye and consuming his hand."
"How could the world be cracked?" Garion asked. "I've never understood that part of the story."
"The power of the Orb of Aldur is such that it can accomplish anything," Barak told him. "When Torak raised it, the earth was split apart by its power, and the seas came in to drown the land. The story's very old, but I think that it's probably true."
"Where is the Orb of Aldur now?" Garion asked suddenly.