The house was owned by a wiry little Drasnian name Khalon, and he and I haggled a bit before we concluded the transaction. The poor fellow got himself soundly beaten when I reverted to the Drasnian Secret Language to conduct our negotiations. He was ashamed to admit that he was out of practice, so he accepted a ridiculously low offer without actually translating my gesture into a real number. Then his pride prevented him from confessing that he’d misunderstood. In short, I neatly skinned him and hung his hide on a fence.
‘I think I’ve been had,’ Khalon muttered after we’d sealed the transaction with a handshake.
‘Yes,’ I agreed, ‘you have. Why didn’t you ask for clarification?’
‘I’d have sooner died. You won’t noise this about, will you?’
‘Wild horses couldn’t drag it out of me. Now, might I ask a favor of you?’
‘You want to swindle me out of my furniture, too?’
‘No. I’ll furnish my house in my own way. I need an introduction to a man named Hattan.’
The Algar cattle-buyer?’
That’s him. Do you know him?’
‘Oh, yes. He’s well-known – and hated – here in Muros.’
‘Hated?’
‘The Tolnedrans absolutely despise him. He knows all the clan chiefs of Algaria by their first names, so he always gets the first pick out of the Algar herds. He skims the cream off the top of every herd that comes over the mountains. Are you thinking of going into the cattle business, Baroness?’
‘No, Khalon, not really. It has to do with something else.’
‘I’ll be busy packing things – and selling off my furniture – for a few days. Then I’ll take you on around to Hattan’s place of business and introduce you.’
‘Are you going back to Boktor, Khalan?’
‘No, Baroness. I don’t like Drasnian winters. I’m getting tired of cows. so I’m moving to Camaar. I’ve heard that there’s profit to be made in the spice-trade, and spices smell much nicer than cows.’
About a week later, Khalon introduced me to Hattan. At my request, he presented me to the tall, lean man dressed in horse-hide as Baroness Pelera. I’ve used assorted pseudonyms over the years, since my real name’s probably engraved on the mind of every Murgo who comes west. After a goodly number of cooperative mothers had named their daughters after the legendary ‘Polgara the Sorceress’, however, that cumbersome subterfuge became unnecessary, and the simplified ‘Pol’ was usually enough to conceal my identity.
Despite the fact that he’d lived in Sendaria for years, Hattan still wore horse-hide clothing and shaved his head except for the single flowing scalp-lock hanging down his back. His success as a cattle-buyer rested on his Algar heritage, so he made a point of dressing appropriately.
Hattan and I took to each other immediately. I’ve always liked Algars, since I grew up in their backyard. Hattan didn’t talk a lot and then only in a very quiet voice. When you spend most of your life with cows, you learn not to startle them with loud noises – unless you enjoy rounding them up again.
Khalon had grossly understated the feelings other cattle-buyers in Muros had for Hattan. Hatred only began to describe it. His intimate contacts with the Algarian clan chiefs gave him an enormous advantage over the Tolnedrans in particular. Algars almost automatically dislike Tolnedrans anyway, so the Algarian clan chiefs made a habit of culling through their herds and reserving the finest cows for Hattan before they ever reached Muros. The sight of all that prime beef that wasn’t available to them drove the Tolnedrans absolutely wild.
In time, Hattan invited Geran and me to meet his family. His wife, Layna, was a plump, giddy-seeming Sendarian lady who was far more shrewd than she appeared on the surface. Geran was polite to her, but most of his attention was locked on to Eldara, a tall, raven-haired beauty of his own age. Eldara seemed just as taken with him, and the two of them sat looking at each other without saying a word in much the same way as Beldaran and Riva had. I caught a very strong odor of ‘tampering’ in the wind. Destiny – or prophecy, call it what you will – was obviously taking a hand in this matter.
They seem to be getting along fairly well,’ Hattan noted after Geran and Eldara had silently gazed into each other’s faces for an hour or so.
‘But they aren’t saying anything,’ Layna protested.
‘Oh, yes they are, Layna,’ Hattan said to his wife. ‘You just aren’t listening. I suppose we’d better start making arrangements.’
‘Arrangements for what?’ Layna demanded.
‘For the wedding, dear,’ I told her.
‘What wedding?’
That one,’ her husband said, pointing at the silent young couple.
They’re only sixteen, Hattan. They’re too young to get married.’
‘Not really,’ her husband disagreed. ‘Believe me, Layna, I’ve seen this sort of thing in the past. Let’s run them through the marriage ceremony before they start getting creative. This is Sendaria, my love, and the proprieties are sort of important here. Just because you and I got an early start doesn’t need to set a precedent for the children, does it?’
She blushed furiously.
‘Yes, Baroness?’ Hattan said to me with one raised eyebrow.
‘Nothing,’ I replied.
We postponed the wedding for a month or so for the sake for appearances, and Hattan, Layna, and I concentrated very hard on making sure that the children were never left alone together. As I recall, I caught Geran climbing out his bedroom window in the middle of the night five or six times during that interminable month. Hattan took a more direct approach. He simply installed iron bars on Eldara’s window.
It was about noon on an overcast day when Hattan stopped by while Layna was keeping watch over our youthful enthusiasts. ‘I think we need to talk,’ he said.
‘Of course. Was it about the dowry?’
‘Did you want a herd of cows?’
‘Hardly.’
“Then we can skip over that. Pelera’s not your real name, is it, my Lady? You’re actually Belgarath’s daughter, Polgara, aren’t you?’
I stared at him, stunned. ‘How did you find that out, Hattan?’
‘I’ve got eyes, Lady Polgara, and I use them. I’m an Alorn, so I know all the stories. They describe you very precisely. They don’t really do you justice, though. You’re probably the most beautiful woman in the world, but that’s beside the point. Geran’s not really your nephew, is he?’