“I don’t find that particularly amusing, Prince Kheldar,” Ce’Nedra said tartly.
After supper they talked for a while longer, the comfortable talk of people who are warm and well-fed, and then Delvor led them into an adjoining tent that had been partitioned off into sleeping chambers. Garion fell asleep almost as soon as his head touched the pillow and he awoke the following morning feeling more refreshed than he had in weeks. He dressed quietly to avoid waking Ce’Nedra and went out into the main pavilion.
Silk and Delvor sat at the table talking quietly. “There’s a great deal of ferment going on here in Arendia,” Delvor was saying. “The news of the campaign against the Bear-cult in the Alorn kingdoms has stirred the blood of all the young hotheads—both Mimbrate and Asturian. The thought of a fight someplace that they weren’t invited to attend fills young Arends with anguish.”
“There’s nothing new about that,” Silk said. “Good morning, Garion.”
“Gentlemen,” Garion said politely, pulling up a chair.
“Your Majesty,” Delvor greeted him. Then he turned back to Silk. “The thing that concerns everybody more than the casual belligerence of the young nobles, though, is the unrest that’s arisen among the serfs.”
Garion remembered the miserable hovels in the villages they had passed in the last few days and the hopeless looks on the faces of their inhabitants. “They have reason enough for discontent, don’t you think?” he said.
“I’d be the first to agree, your Majesty,” Delvor said, “and it’s not the first time it’s happened. This time, though, it’s a little more serious. The authorities have been finding caches of weapons—fairly sophisticated ones. A serf with a pitchfork isn’t much of a match for an armored Mimbrate knight. A serf with a crossbow, however, is an altogether different matter. There have been several incidents—and some reprisals.”
“How could serfs get those kinds of weapons?” Garion asked him. “Most of the time they don’t even have enough to eat. How could they possibly afford to buy crossbows?”
“They’re coming in from outside the country,” Delvor told him. “We haven’t been able to pinpoint the source yet, but it’s fairly obvious that somebody wants to make sure that the Arendish nobility is too busy at home to get involved in anything anyplace else.”
“Kal Zakath, perhaps?” Silk suggested.
“It’s entirely possible,” Delvor agreed. “There’s no question that the emperor of Mallorea has global ambitions, and turmoil in the Kingdoms of the West would be his best ally if he decides to turn his armies northward after he finally kills King Urgit.”
Garion groaned. “That’s all I need,” he said, “one more thing to worry about.”
When the others joined them in the main pavilion, Delvor’s servants brought in a huge breakfast. There were whole platters of eggs, heaps of bacon and sausage, and plate after plate of fruit and rich pastries.
“Now this is what I call a breakfast,” Silk said enthusiastically.
Polgara gave him a cool look. “Go ahead and say it, Prince Kheldar,” she said. “I’m sure that you have all sorts of interesting observations to make.”
“Would I say anything about that excellent gruel you offer us every morning, dear lady?” he asked with exaggerated innocence.
“Not if you’re at all concerned about your health, you wouldn’t,” Ce’Nedra said sweetly.
One of the servants entered the tent with an offended expression on his face. “There’s an obnoxious, filthy hunch- back outside, Delvor,” he reported. “He has the foulest mouth I’ve ever run across and he’s demanding to be let in. Do you want us to chase him off?”
“Oh, that would be Uncle Beldin,” Polgara said.
“You know him?” Delvor seemed surprised.
“I’ve known him since I was a baby,” she replied. “He’s not really as bad as he seems—once you get used to him.” She frowned slightly. “You probably ought to let him come in,” she advised. “He can be terribly unpleasant when people irritate him.”
“Belgarath,” Beldin growled, roughly pushing his way past the protesting servant, “is this all the farther you’ve come? I thought you’d be in Tol Honeth by now.”
“We had to stop at Prolgu to see the Gorim,” Belgarath replied mildly.
“This isn’t a grand tour, you blockhead,” Beldin snapped irritably. The little hunchback was as filthy as ever. The wet rags he wore for clothes were tied to his body here and there with lengths of rotten twine. His hair was matted and had twigs and bits of straw clinging to it. His hideous face was as black as a thundercloud as he stumped to the table on his short, gnarled legs and helped himself to a bit of sausage.
“Please try to be civil, uncle,” Aunt Pol said.
“Why?” He pointed at a small pot standing on the table. “What’s in that?”
“Jam,” Delvor replied, looking slightly intimidated.
“Interesting,” Beldin said. He dipped one dirty hand into the pot and began feeding gobs of jam into his mouth. “Not bad,” he said, licking his fingers.
“There’s bread right there, uncle,” Aunt Pol said pointedly.
“I don’t like bread,” he grunted, wiping his hand on his clothes.
“Did you manage to catch up with Harakan?” Belgarath asked him.
Beldin retorted with a number of expletives that made Ce’Nedra’s face blanch. “He gave me the slip again. I don’t have the time to waste chasing him, so I’ll have to forgo the pleasure of splitting him up the middle.” He dipped his hand into the jam pot again.
“If we run across him, we’ll take care of it for you,” Silk offered.
“He’s a sorcerer, Kheldar. If you get in his way, he’ll hang your guts on a fence.”
“I was going to let Garion do it.”
Beldin set down the empty jam pot and belched.
“Can I offer you anything else?” Delvor asked him.
“No, thanks all the same, but I’m full now.” He turned back to Belgarath. “Were you planning to get as far as Tol Honeth before summer?”
“We’re not really that far behind, Beldin,” Belgarath protested.
Beldin made an indelicate sound. “Keep your eyes open on the way south,” he advised. “There’s a Malloreon who’s been asking questions about you and the others. He’s been hiring people all up and down the Great West Road.”
Belgarath looked at him sharply. “Could you get any kind of name?”
“He uses several. The one that crops up most often is Naradas.”
“Have you got any idea of what he looks like?” Silk asked.
“About all I’ve been able to pick up is the fact that he’s got funny eyes. From what I’ve been told, they’re all white.”
“Well,” Delvor said, “well, well, well.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Beldin asked him.
“The man with white eyes is right here in the fair. He’s been asking questions here, too.”
“That makes it fairly easy, then. Have somebody go run a knife into his back.”
Belgarath shook his head. “The legionnaires who police the fair get excited when unexplained bodies start showing up,” he said.
Beldin shrugged. “Rap him on the head with something, then drag him a few miles out onto the plain. Cut his throat and dump him in a hole. He probably won’t sprout until spring.” He looked over at Polgara with a sly grin creasing his ugly face. “If you keep nibbling on that pastry, girl, you’re going to spread. You’re chubby enough already.”
“Chubby?”
“That’s all right, Pol. Some men like girls with fat bottoms.”
“Why don’t you wipe the jam out of your beard, uncle?”
“I’m saving it for lunch.” He scratched one armpit.
“Lice again?” she asked coolly.
“It’s always possible. I don’t mind a few lice, though. They’re better company than most people I know.”
“Where are you going now?” Belgarath asked him.
“Back to Mallorea. I want to root around in Darshiva for a while and see what I can dig up about Zandramas.”
Delvor had been looking at the grimy little man with a speculative squint. “Were you planning to leave immediately, Master Beldin?” he asked.
“Why?”
“I’d like a word with you in private, if you’ve got a few moments.”
“Secrets, Delvor?” Silk asked.
“Not really, old boy. I’ve got a sort of an idea, but I’d like to get it a bit more developed before I tell you about it.” He turned back to the hunchback. “Why don’t we take a little stroll, Master Beldin? I have a notion that might appeal to you, and it really won’t take very long.”
Beldin’s look was curious. “All right,” he agreed, and the two of them went outside into the drizzling morning.
“What was that all about?” Garion asked Silk.
“It’s an irritating habit Delvor picked up at the Academy. He likes to pull off clever ploys without any advance warning. That way he can sit around afterward and bask in everyone’s stunned admiration.” The little man looked at the table. “I believe I’ll have just a bit more of that sausage,” he said, “and maybe a few more eggs. It’s a long way to Tol Honeth, and I’d like to put in a buffer against all that gruel.”