“Uh ‑excuse me,” Garion interjected mildly, “but why does anybody have to go at all?”
“Because the troops are all sitting on their hands in their barracks while Mal Zeth burns,” Zakath snapped.
“They have to start tearing down houses to make fire breaks, or we’ll lose the whole city. Someone has to order them out.”
“Have you got troops posted outside the palace walls?” Garion asked.
“Yes. They have orders to keep the populace away.”
“Why not just shout at them from the top of the wall?” Garion suggested. “Tell one of them to go get a colonel or somebody, then yell your orders down to him. Tell him to put the troops to work. Nobody can catch the plague from a hundred yards away ‑I don’t think.”
Zakath stared at him and then suddenly began to laugh ruefully. “Why didn’t I think of that?” he asked.
“Probably because you weren’t raised on a farm,” Garion replied. “If you’re plowing a different field from the man you want to talk to, you shout back and forth.
Otherwise, you do an awful lot of unnecessary walking.”
“All right,” Zakath said briskly, looking at his generals, “which one of you has the biggest mouth?”
A red‑faced officer with a big paunch and snowy white hair grinned suddenly. “In my youth, I could be heard all the way across a parade ground, your Majesty,” he said.
“Good. Go see if you can still do it. Get hold of some colonel with a glimmer of intelligence. Tell him to abandon any district that’s already burning and to tear down enough houses around the perimeter to keep the fire from spreading. Tell him that there’s a generalcy in it for him if he saves at least half of Mal Zeth.”
“Provided that he doesn’t get the plague and die,” one of the other generals muttered.
“That’s what soldiers get paid for, gentlemen ‑taking risks. When the trumpet blows, you’re supposed to attack, and I’m blowing the trumpet ‑right now.”
“Yes, your Majesty,” they all replied in unison, turned smartly, and marched out.
“That was a clever idea, Garion,” Zakath said gratefully. “Thank you.” He sprawled wearily in a chair.
“Just common sense.” Garion shrugged, also sitting down.
“Kings and Emperors aren’t supposed to have common sense. It’s too common.”
“You’re going to have to get some sleep, Zakath,” Garion told him seriously. “You look like a man on his last legs.”
“Gods,” Zakath replied, “I’d give half of Karanda right now for a few hours’ sleep ‑of course, I don’t have half of Karanda anymore.”
“Go to bed, then.”
“I can’t. There’s too much to do.”
“How much can you do if you collapse from exhaustion? Your generals can take care of things until you wake up. That’s what generals are for, isn’t it?”
“Maybe.” Zakath slumped lower in his chair. He looked across at Garion. “Was there something on your mind?” he asked. “I’m sure this isn’t just a social visit.”
“Well,” Garion said, trying to make it sound only incidental, “Durnik’s worried about our horses,” he said.
“We’ve talked with Aunt PoI ‑Lady Polgara‑ and she’s not really sure whether horses can catch plague or not.
Durnik wanted me to ask you if it would be all right if we took our animals out of the main stables and picketed them someplace near the east wing where he can keep an eye on them.”
“Horses?” Zakath said incredulously. “He’s worried about horses at a time like this?”
“You sort of have to understand Durnik,” Garion replied. “He’s a man who takes his responsibilities very seriously. He looks on it as a duty, and I think we can both appreciate that.”
Zakath laughed a tried laugh. “The legendary Sendarian virtues,” he said, “duty, rectitude and practicality.” He shrugged. “Why not?” he said. “If it makes Goodman Durnik happy, he can stable your horses in the corridors of the east wing if he wants.”
“Oh, I don’t think he’d want to do that,” Garion replied after a moment’s thought. “One of the Sendarian virtues you neglected to mention was propriety. Horses don’t belong inside the house. Besides,” he added, “the marble floors might bruise their hooves.”
Zakath smiled weakly. “You’re a delight, Garion,” he said. “Sometimes you’re so serious about the littlest things.”
“Big things are made up of little things, Zakath,” Garion replied sententiously. He looked at the exhausted man across the table, feeling a peculiar regret at being forced to deceive somebody he genuinely liked. “Are you going to be all right?” he asked.
“I’ll survive, I expect,” Zakath said. “You see, Garion, one of the big secrets about this world is that the people who desperately cling to life are usually the ones who die. Since I don’t really care one way or the other, I’ll probably live to be a hundred.”
“I wouldn’t base any plans on that kind of superstition,” Garion told him. Then a thought came to him. “Would it upset you if we locked the doors of the east wing from the inside until this all blows over?” he asked. “I’m not particularly timid about getting sick myself, but I’m sort of concerned about Ce’Nedra and Liselle and Eriond. None of them are really terribly robust, and Aunt Pol said that stamina was one of the things that help people survive the plague.”
Zakath nodded. “That’s a reasonable request,” he agreed, “and really a very good idea. Let’s protect the ladies and the boy, if at all possible.”
Garion stood up. “You’ve got to get some sleep,” he said.
“I don’t think I can sleep. There are so many things on my mind just now.”
“I’ll have someone send Andel to you,” Garion suggested. “If she’s half as good as Aunt Pol thinks she is, she should be able to give you something that would put a regiment to sleep.” He looked at the exhausted man he cautiously considered to be his friend. “I won’t be seeing you for a while,” he said. “Good luck, and try to take care of yourself, all right?”
“I’ll try, Garion. I’ll try.”
Gravely they shook hands, and Garion turned and quietly left the room.
They were busy for the next several hours. Despite Garion’s subterfuges, Brador’s secret police dogged their every step. Durnik and Toth and Eriond went to the stables and came back with the horses, trailed closely by the ubiquitous policemen.
“What’s holding things up?” Belgarath demanded when they had all gathered once again in the large room at the top of the stairs with its dais and the throne-like chair at one end.
“I’m not sure,” Silk replied carefully, looking around. “It’s just a matter of time, though.”
Then, out on the palace grounds beyond the bolted doors of the east wing, there was the sound of shouting and the thud of running feet, followed by the ring of steel on steel.
“Something seems to be happening,” Velvet said clinically.
“It’s about time,” Belgarath grunted.
“Be nice, Ancient One.”
Within their locked‑off building there also came the rapid staccato sound of running. The doors leading out into the rest of the palace and to the grounds began to bang open and then slam shut.
“Are they all leaving, Pol?” Belgarath asked.
Her eyes grew distant for a moment. “Yes, father,” she said.
The running and slamming continued for several minutes.
“My,” Sadi said mildly, “weren’t there a lot of them?”
“Will you three stop congratulating yourselves and go bolt those doors again?” Belgarath said.
Silk grinned and slipped out the door. He came back a few minutes later, frowning. “We’ve got a bit of a problem,” he said. “The guards at the main door seem to have a strong sense of duty. They haven’t left their posts. “
“Great diversion, Silk,” Belgarath said sarcastically.
“Toth and I can deal with them,” Durnik said confidently. He went to the box beside the fireplace and picked up a stout chunk of oak firewood.
“That might be just a bit direct, dear,” Polgara murmured. “I’m sure you don’t want to kill them, and sooner or later they’ll wake up and run straight to Zakath. I think we’ll need to come up with something a little more sneaky.”
“I don’t care much for that word, Pol,” he said stiffly.
“Would ‘diplomatic’ put a better light on it?”
He thought about it. “No,” he said, “not really. It means the same thing, doesn’t it?”
“Well,” she conceded, “yes, probably. But it sounds nicer, doesn’t it?”
“Polgara,” the smith said firmly. It was the first time Garion had ever heard him use her full name. “I’m not trying to be unreasonable, but how can we face the world if we lie and cheat and sneak every time we go around a corner? I mean ‑really, Pol.”
She looked at him. “Oh, my Durnik,” she said, “I love you.” She threw her arms about her husband’s neck with a sort of girlish exuberance. “You’re too good for this world, do you know that?”