Sorceress of Darshiva

"Right y' are," he agreed. "You there," he said to Belgarath. "Get the poor girl a cup or somethin'."

Belgarath scowled at his gnarled brother, then wordlessly fetched a silver tankard from a sideboard.

Beldin dipped deeply into the cask with the tankard, swiped off the bottom with his sleeve, and offered it to their hostess. "To yer good health, me darlin'," he said, drinking from the cask.

"You're so kind," she hiccuped. Then she drained off about half the tankard with foamy ale spilling out of the comers of her mouth and down the front of her gown.

"We were very sorry to have missed his Grace," Silk said, obviously a little nonplussed by Beldin's rough-and-ready approach to a highborn, though tipsy, lady.

"You didn't miss a thing, your Highness," she burped, politely covering her mouth.

"My husband's a fat green toad with all the charm of a dead rat. He spends his time trying to decipher his proximity to the imperial throne. Kal Zakath has no heir, so all the imperial cousins sit around waiting for one another to die and trying to cement alliances. Have you ever been in Mal Zetn, your Highness? It's an absolutely ghastly place. Frankly, imperial crown or no, I'd sooner live in Hell." She drained her tankard and handed it wordlessly back to Beldin. Then she looked around brightly, her eyes slightly unfocused. "But my dear Prince 'Kheldar," she said, "you haven't introduced me to your friends as yet."

"How terribly forgetful of me, your Grace," he ex-Claimed, slapping his hand to his forehead. He rose formally to his feet. "Your Grace, I have the honor to present her Grace, the Duchess of Erat." He held his hand out grandly to Polgara, who rose and curtsied.

"Your Grace," she murmured.

"Your Grace," the archduchess replied, trying to rise, but not quite succeeding.

"There, there, me darlin'," Beldin said, pressing down on her shoulder to keep her more or less in place. " Tis early, an' we're all friends. There's no need at all fer us t' be goin' through all these tiresome formalities."

"I like him," the noblewoman said, pointing at Beldin with one hand and dipping out more ale with the other. "Can I keep him?"

"Sorry, your Grace," Belgarath said. "We might need him later on."

"So grim a face," she observed, looking at the ancient sorcerer. She grinned roguishly. "I'll wager I could make you smile."

Silk rushed on. "Her Highness, Princess Ce'Nedra of the House of Borune," he said, "and the Margravine Liselle of Drasnia. The young man with the sword is known as the Lord of the Western Sea—an obscure title, I'll grant you, but his people are an obscure sort of folk." Garion bowed deeply to the tipsy archduchess.

"So great a sword you have, my Lord," she said, "It's a family heirloom, your Grace," he replied. "I'm more or less obliged to carry it."

"The others have no titles they care to acknowledge," Silk said. "They're business associates, and we don't worry about titles where money is concerned."

"Do you have a title?" the lady asked Beldin. "Several, me little darlin'," he replied in an offhand way, "but none from any land ye'd be recognizin' the name of— most of 'em havin' disappeared long ago." He raised the cask again and drank noisily.

"What a dear little man you are," she said in a smoldering sort of voice.

" 'Tis me charm, darlin'," he replied with a resigned sort of sigh. " 'Tis always been me bane, this charmin' quality about me. Sometimes I must actually hide myself t' keep off the maids overpowered with unreasonin' passion." He sighed again, then belched.

"We might want to talk about that one of these days," she suggested.

Silk was obviously out of his depth here. "Ah—" he said lamely, "—as I was saying, we're sorry to have missed the archduke."

"I can't for the life of me think why, your Highness," the lady said bluntly. "My husband's an unmitigated ass, and he doesn't bathe regularly. He has wild aspirations about the imperial throne and very little in the way of prospects in that direction." She held out her tankard to Beldin. "Would you, dear?"

He squinted down into the cask. "It could just be that we'll need another, me darlin'," he suggested.

"I've got a cellar full," she sighed happily. "We can go on like this for days, if you'd like."

Belgarath and Beldin exchanged a long look. "Nevermind," Belgarath said.

"But-"

"Never mind."

"You were saying that your husband has imperial ambitions, your Grace," Silk floundered on.

"Can you imagine that idiot as emperor of Mallorea?" She sneered. "Half the time he can't even get his shoes on the right feet. Fortunately, he's a long way down the line of succession."

Garion suddenly remembered something. "Has anyone ever suggested anything to him that might have encouraged these ambitions?" he asked.

"I certainly didn't," she declared. She frowned blearily sat the far wall. "Now that you mention it, though, there was a fellow who came through here a few years ago—a fellow with white eyes. Have you ever seen anybody with eyes like that? It makes your blood run cold. Anyway, he and the archduke went off to my husband's study to talk." ' She snorted derisively. "Study! I don't think my idiot husband can even read. He can barely talk to me, but he calls room his study. Isn't that absurd? Well, at any rate, that happened at a time when I was still curious about the oaf's affairs. I'd had one of the footmen drill a hole through the wall so I could watch—and hear—what the fool was up to." Her lower lip began to tremble. "Not long after that, I saw him in there with the upstairs maid." She threw her arms out tragically, sloshing ale on Beldin. "Betrayed!" she cried. "In my own house!"

"What were they talking about?" Garion asked her gently. "Your husband and the white-eyed man, I mean?"

"White-eyes told my husband that somebody named Zandramas could guarantee him succession to the throne in Mal Zeth. That name sounds familiar for some reason. Has anybody ever heard it before?" She looked around, trying to focus her eyes.

"Not that I recall," Silk lied blandly. "Have you ever seen this white-eyed man again?"

The archduchess was busily trying to dip the last bit of ale out of the cask.

"What?" she asked.

"The white-eyed man," Belgarath said impatiently. "Did he ever come back?"