“You keep calling this Zandramas ‘she,’ “ Garion noted.
“Would you believe it’s a woman!” the Karand snorted. “That’s the foolishest thing I ever heard tell of. Women got no business mixin’ up in men’s affairs.”
“Have you ever seen her?”
“Like I say, I don’t mess around in religious stuff. Me and my peg, we just kinda keep to ourselves when it conies to that.”
“Good way to get along,” Garion said to him. “My friends and I have to go through that plain down there, though. Are Grolims all we need to worry about?”
“I can see you’re a stranger,” the Karand said, suggestively looking down into his empty tankard.
“Here,” Garion said, “let’s get another one.” He fished another coin out of the pouch at his waist and signaled the servingman.
“The whole thang, friend,” the garrulous owner of the pig went on, “is that in this part of the country, them Grolims always has troops with ‘em. The ones as follows Zandramas, they got the army of the king of Voresebo with ‘em. The old king, he didn’t hold with none of this religious stuff, but he got hisself de-posed. His son decided the old man was gettin’ too silly to run the country, so he set his pa aside and took the throne for hisself. The son’s a squinty-eyed sort and he’s lookin’ to put hisself on the side most likely to win. He’s throwed in with Zandramas, but then this Urvon fella, he comes along, and he’s got this whole army out of Jenno and Ganesia and folks in armor and some real ugly big black dogs with him—not to mention all the Grolims. It’s mean down there on the plains, friend. They’re killin’ and burnin’ and sacrificin’ prisoners on this altar or mat. If it was me, I’d go a long way around all that foolishness.”
“I wish I could, friend,” Garion told him sincerely. “We heard that there were demons up in Jenno—off toward Callida. Have any of them shown up around here?”
“Demons?” The Karand shuddered, making the sign against evil. “None that I ever heard tell of. If I had, me and my peg would already be so far back in the mountains that they’d have to ship daylight in to us by pack train.”
Despite himself, Garion found that he liked this gabby old fellow. There was an almost musical flow to his illiterate speech, a kind of warm inclusiveness that paid no attention to any kind of social distinctions, and a shrewd, even penetrating, assessment of the chaos around him. It was almost with regret that Garion briefly acknowledged Silk’s jerk of the head in the direction of the door. Gently, he removed the pig’s head from his lap. The animal made a small, discontented sound. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to go now,” he told the Karand as he rose to his feet. “I thank you for your company—and the loan of your pig.”
“Peg,” the Karand corrected.
“Peg,” Garion agreed. He stopped the servingman who was going by and handed him a coin. “Give my friend and his peg whatever they’d like,” he said.
“Why, thank you, my young friend.” The old Karand grinned expansively.
“My pleasure,” Garion said. He looked down. “Have a nice day, pig,” he added.
The pig grunted rather distantly and clattered around the table to his master.
Ce’Nedra wrinkled her nose as he approached the shady spot where the ladies had been waiting. “What on earth have you been doing, Garion?” she asked. “You smell awful.”
“I was getting acquainted with a pig.”
“A pig?” she exclaimed. “Whatever for?”
“You almost had to have been there.”
As they rode along exchanging the information they had gleaned, it became evident that the owner of the pig had offered a surprisingly complete and succinct perception of the situation in Voresebo. Garion repeated the conversation, complete with dialect.
“He didn’t really talk that way, did he?” Velvet giggled incredulously.
“Why, no’m,” Garion said, exaggerating just a bit, “when you get right down to the core of it, he didn’t. There was ‘theses’ and ‘thoses’ and ‘themses’ that I can’t quite get the hang of. Me and the pig got along good, though.”
“Garion,” Polgara said a bit distantly, “do you suppose you could ride back there a ways?” She gestured toward the rear of the column. “Several hundred yards or so, I ‘d say.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said. He reined Chretienne in. The big gray horse, he noted, also seemed a bit offended by something in the air.
By general request, Garion bathed that night in a shockingly cold mountain stream. When he returned, shivering, to the fire, Belgarath looked at him and said, “I think you’d better put your armor back on. If half of what your friend with the pig said is true, you might need it.”
“Peg,” Garion corrected.
“What?”
“Never mind.”
The next morning dawned clear and definitely chilly. The mail coat felt clammy even through the padded tunic Garion always wore under it, and it was heavy and uncomfortable. Durnik cut him a lance from a nearby thicket and leaned it against a tree near where the horses were picketed.
Belgarath came back from a small hilltop where he had been surveying the plains below. “From what I can see, the turmoil is fairly general down there, so there isn’t much point in trying to avoid people. The quicker we get past Voresebo, the better, so we might as well ride straight on through. We’ll try to talk our way out of any difficulties first; and, if that doesn’t work, we’ll do it the other way.”
“I suppose I’d better go find another club,” Sadi sighed.
They rode out with Garion jingling along in the lead. His helmet was in place, and his shield was strapped to his left arm. The butt of his lance rested beside his foot in his stirrup, and he affected a menacing scowl. The sword strapped across his back pulled steadily at him, indicating that they were still on the trail of Zandramas. When they reached the edge of the foothills, the winding mountain track became a narrow, rutted road stretching off toward the southeast. They picked up their pace and moved along the road at a brisk
A few miles out onto the plain, they passed a burning village set back about a half mile from the road. They did not stop to investigate.
About noon, they encountered a party of armed men on foot. There were about fifteen of them, and they wore clothing which vaguely resembled uniforms.
“Well?” Garion said back over his shoulder, tightening his grip on his lance.
“Let me talk to them first,” Silk said, moving his horse forward. “Try to look dangerous.” The little man walked his horse toward the strangers. “You’re blocking the road,” he told them in a flat, unfriendly tone.
“We have orders to check everyone who passes,” one of them said, looking at Garion a little nervously.
“All right, you’ve checked us. Now stand aside.”
“Which side are you on?”
“Now, that’s a stupid question, man,” Silk replied. “Which side are you on?”
“I don’t have to answer that.”
“Then neither do I. Use your eyes, man. Do I look like a Karand—or a Temple Guardsman—or a Grolim?”
“Do you follow Urvon or Zandramas?”
“Neither one. I follow money, and you don’t make money by getting mixed up in religion.”
The roughly dressed soldier looked even more uncertain. “I have to report which side you’re on to my captain.”
“That’s assuming that you’ve seen me,” Silk told him, bouncing a purse suggestively on the palm of his hand. “I’m in a hurry, friend. I have no interest in your religion. Please do me the same courtesy.”
The soldier was looking at the purse in Silk’s hand with undisguised greed.
“It would be worth quite a bit to me not to be delayed,” Silk suggested slyly. He theatrically wiped his brow. “It’s getting hot out here,” he said. “Why don’t you and your men go find some shade to rest in? I’ll ‘accidentally’ drop this purse here, and you can ‘find’ it later. That way, you make a nice profit, and I get to move along without interference and without having someone in authority find out that I’ve passed.”
“It is getting warm out here,” the soldier agreed.
“I thought you might have noticed that.”
The other soldiers were grinning openly.
“You won’t forget to drop the purse?”
“Trust me,” Silk said.
The soldiers trooped across the field toward a grove of trees. Silk negligently tossed the purse into the ditch beside the road and motioned for the others to come ahead. “We might want to move right along,” he suggested.
“Another purse full of pebbles?” Durnik grinned.
“Oh, no, Durnik. The purse has real money in it— Mallorean brass halfpennies. You can’t buy very much with them, but they’re real money, right enough.”