Garion nodded politely even though he inwardly winced. He had been through this sort of thing before and knew how tedious it usually became. The Chief of the Bureau of Internal Affairs led him down from the platform into the swirl of brightly clad celebrants, pausing occasionally to exchange greetings with various fellow officials and to introduce Garion. Garion braced himself for an hour or two of total boredom. The plump, bald‑headed Brador, however, proved to be an entertaining escort. Though he seemed to be engaging Garion in light conversation, he was in fact providing a succinct and often pointed briefing even as they went.
“We’ll be talking with the kinglet of Pallia,” he murmured as they approached a group of men in tall, conical felt caps who wore leather which had been dyed an unhealthy‑looking green color. “He’s a fawning bootlicker, a liar, a coward, and absolutely not to be trusted.”
“Ah, there you are, Brador,” one of the felt‑capped men greeted the Melcene with a forced heartiness.
“Your Highness,” Brador replied with a florid bow. “I have the honor to present his Royal Majesty, Belgarion of Riva.” He turned to Garion. “Your Majesty, this is his Highness, King Warasin of Pallia.”
“Your Majesty,” Warasin gushed, bowing awkwardly. He was a man with a narrow, pockmarked face, close-set eyes, and a slack‑lipped mouth. His hands, Garion noticed, were not particularly clean.
“Your Highness,” Garion replied with a slightly distant note.
“I was just telling the members of my court here that I’d have sooner believed that the sun would rise in the north tomorrow than that the Overlord of the West would appear at Mal Zeth.”
“The world is full of surprises.”
“By the beard of Torak, you’re right, Belgarion ‑you don’t mind if I call you Belgarion, do you, your Majesty?”
“Torak didn’t have a beard,” Garion corrected shortly.
“’What?”
“Torak ‑he didn’t have a beard. At least he didn’t when I met him.”
“When you‑“ Warasin’s eyes suddenly widened.
“Are you telling me that all those stories about what happened at Cthol Mishrak are actually true?” he gasped,
“I’m not sure, your Highness,” Garion told him. “I haven’t heard all the stories yet. It’s been an absolute delight meeting you, old boy,” he said, clapping the stunned‑looking kinglet on the shoulder with exaggerated camaraderie. “It’s a shame that we don’t have more time to talk. Coming, Brador?” He nodded to the petty king of Pallia, turned, and led the Melcene away.
“You’re very skilled, Belgarion,” Brador murmured.
“Much more so than I would have imagined, considering‑“ He hesitated.
“Considering the fact that I look like an unlettered country oaf?” Garion supplied.
“I don’t know that I’d put it exactly that way.”
“Why not?” Garion shrugged. “It’s the truth, isn’t it?
What was pig-eyes back there trying to maneuver the conversation around to? It was pretty obvious that he was leading up to something.”
“It’s fairly simple,” Brador replied. “He recognizes current proximity to Kal Zakath. All power in Mallorea derives from the throne, and the man who has the Emperor’s ear is in a unique position. Warasin is currently having a border dispute with the Prince Regent of Delchin and he probably wants you to put in a good word for him.” Brador gave him an amused look. “You’re in a position right now to make millions, you know.”
Garion laughed. “I couldn’t carry it, Brador,” he said.
“I visited the royal treasury at Riva once, and I know how much a million weighs. Who’s next?”
“The Chief of the Bureau of Commerce ‑an unmitigated, unprincipled ass. Like most Bureau Chiefs.”
Garion smiled. “And what does he want?”
Brador tugged thoughtfully at one earlobe. “I’m not entirely certain. I’ve been out of the country. Vasca’s a devious one, though, so I’d be careful of him.”
“I’m always careful, Brador.”
The Baron Vasca, Chief of the Bureau of Commerce, was wrinkled and bald. He wore the brown robe that seemed to be almost the uniform of the bureaucracy, and the gold chain of his office seemed almost too heavy for his thin neck. Though at first glance he appeared to be old and frail, his eyes were as alert and shrewd as those of a vulture. “Ah, your Majesty,” he said after they had been introduced, “I’m so pleased to meet you at last.”
“My pleasure, Baron Vasca,” Garion said politely.
They chatted together for some time, and Garion could not detect anything in the baron’s conversation that seemed in the least bit out of the ordinary.
“I note that Prince Kheldar of Drasnia is a member of your party,” the baron said finally.
“We’re old friends. You’re acquainted with Kheldar then, Baron?”
“We’ve had a few dealings together ‑the customary permits and gratuities, you understand. For the most part, though, he tends to avoid contact with the authorities.”
“I’ve noticed that from time to time,” Garion said.
“I was certain that you would have. I won’t keep your Majesty. Many others here are eager to meet you, and I wouldn’t want to be accused of monopolizing your time. We must talk again soon.”
The baron turned to the Chief of the Bureau of Internal Affairs. “So good of you to introduce us, my dear Brador,” he said.
“It’s nothing, my dear Baron,” Brador replied. He took Garion by the arm, and they moved away from Vasca.
“What was that all about?” Garion asked.
“I’m not altogether sure,” Brador replied, “but whatever he wanted, he seems to have gotten.”
“We didn’t really say anything.”
“I know. That’s what worries me. I think I’ll have my old friend Vasca watched. He’s managed to arouse my curiosity.”
During the next couple of hours Garion met two more gaudily dressed petty kings, a fair number of more soberly garbed bureaucrats, and a sprinkling of semi-important nobles and their ladies. Many of them, of course, wanted nothing more than to be seen talking to him so that later they could say in a casual, offhand fashion, “I was talking with Belgarion the other day, and he said‑“ Others made some point of suggesting that a private conversation might be desirable at some later date, A few even tried to set up specific appointments.
It was rather late when Velvet finally came to his rescue. She approached the place where Garion was trapped by the royal family of Peldane, a stodgy little kinglet in a mustard yellow turban, his simpering, scrawny wife in a pink gown that clashed horribly with her orange hair, and three spoiled royal brats who spent their time whining and hitting each other. “Your Majesty,” the blond girl said with a curtsy, “Your wife asks your permission to retire.”
“Asks?”
“She’s feeling slightly unwell.”
Garion gave her a grateful look. “I must go to her at once, then,” he said quickly. He turned to the Peldane royalty. “I hope you’ll all excuse me,” he said to them.
“Of course, Belgarion,” the kinglet replied graciously.
“And please convey our regards to your lovely wife,” the queenlet added.
The royal brood continued to howl and kick each other.
“You looked a bit harried,” Velvet murmured as she led Garion away.
“I could kiss you.”
“Now that’s an interesting suggestion.”
Garion glanced sourly back over his shoulder. “They should drown those three little monsters and raise a litter of puppies instead,” he muttered.
“Piglets,” she corrected.
He looked at her.
“At least they could sell the bacon,” she explained. “That way the effort wouldn’t be a total loss.”
“Is Ce’Nedra really ill?”
“Of course not. She’s made as many conquests as she wants to this evening, that’s all. She wants to save a few for future occasions. Now it’s time for the grand withdrawal, leaving a horde of disappointed admirers, who were all panting to meet her, crushed with despair.”
“That’s a peculiar way to look at it.”
She laughed affectionately, linking her arm in his. “Not if you’re a woman, it’s not.”
The following morning shortly after breakfast, Garion and Belgarath were summoned to meet with Zakath and Brador in the Emperor’s private study. The room was large and comfortable, lined with books and maps and with deeply upholstered chairs clustered about low tables. It was a warm day outside, and the windows stood open, allowing a blossom‑scented spring breeze to ruffle the curtains.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” Zakath greeted them as they were escorted into the room. “I hope you slept well.”
“Once I managed to get Ce’Nedra out of the tub.” Garion laughed. “It’s just a bit too convenient, I think. Would you believe that she bathed three times yesterday?”
“Mal Zeth is very hot and dusty in the summertime,” Zakath said. “The baths make it bearable.”
“How does the hot water get to them?” Garion asked curiously. “I haven’t seen anyone carrying pails up and down the halls.”
“It’s piped in under the floors,” the Emperor replied. “The artisan who devised the system was rewarded with a baronetcy.”
“I hope you don’t mind if we steal the idea. Durnik’s already making sketches.”