The door at the far end of the throne room opened, and a heavy-shouldered Murgo of late middle age entered. His hair was gray, and his scarred face was heavily lined. There was no hint that a smile had ever touched that grim face. “Your Majesty rang?” he said in a rasping voice.
“Yes, Oskatat,” Urgit replied in an oddly respectful tone.
“Do you suppose that you could escort my good friend Sadi and his servants to suitable quarters?” He turned back to
Sadi. “Oskatat is Lord High Seneschal here,” he said. “He
Served my father in the same capacity at Rak Goska.” There was no hint of his usual mockery as he spoke. “My mother and I were not popular in my father’s house, and Oskatat. I was the closest thing to a friend either of us had there.”
“My Lord,” Sadi said to the big, gray-haired man with a deep bow.
The seneschal nodded a curt response, then returned his bleak gaze to the king. “Has my Lady Tamazin retired for the night?” he asked.
“Yes, Oskatat.”
“Then you should also seek your bed. The hour is late.”
“I was just on my way,” Urgit answered, getting quickly to his feet. Then he stopped. “Oskatat,” he said plaintively, “I’m not a sickly little boy any more. I don’t really need to spend twelve hours in bed every night the way I used to.”
“The burdens of the crown are many,” the seneschal said shortly. “You need your rest.” He turned back to Sadi. “Follow me,” he said, starting toward the door.
“Until tomorrow then, Sadi,” Urgit said. “Sleep well.”
“My thanks, your Majesty.”
The rooms to which the bleak-faced Oskatat took them were as garish as the rest of the Drojim Palace. The walls were painted an unwholesome mustard-yellow and hung with splotchy tapestries. The furnishings were carved from rare, priceless woods, and the blue Malloreon carpet was as deep as the wool on the back of a sheep. Once he had opened the door for them, Oskatat jerked his head in the briefest of nods, then turned and left them alone.
“Charming fellow there,” Sadi murmured.
Garion had been looking curiously at Silk, who still had his face covered by his hood. “Why are you trying so hard to hide?” he asked.
The little man pulled back his hood with a rueful expression. “One of the disadvantages of being a world traveler is that one keeps running into old friends.”
“I’m not sure I follow you.”
“Do you remember that time when we were on our way to Rak Cthol and Taur Urgas caught me and stuck me in that pit?”
“Yes.”
“And do you remember why he did that—and why he planned to peel off my skin inch by inch the next day?”
“You said that you’d been in Rak Goska once and accidentally killed his eldest son.”
“Right. You have an excellent memory, Garion. Well, as it happened, I’d been engaged in some negotiations with Taur Urgas himself before that unfortunate incident. I visited the palace in Rak Goska frequently and met the Lady Tamazin several times. She’s almost certain to remember me— particularly in view of the fact that she said that she knew my father.”
“That could cause some problems,” Belgarath said.
“Not if I avoid her.” Silk shrugged. “Murgo women seldom socialize with men—particularly with strangers—so I don’t imagine we’ll be bumping into each other very often in the next few days. Oskatat could be a different matter, though. I also met him while I was there.”
“I think that, if it’s at all possible, you ought to stay here in our rooms,” the old man suggested. “It might even keep you out of trouble for a change.”
“Why, Belgarath,” Silk said mildly, “what a thing to say.”
“Has King Urgit always been like this?” Durnik asked Sadi. “He seems awfully—well—humorous, I guess the word is. I didn’t think that Murgos even knew how to smile.”
“He’s a very complex fellow,” Sadi replied.
“Have you known him long?”
“He frequently visited Sthiss Tor when he was younger— usually on missions for his father. I think he jumped at any excuse to get out of Rak Goska. He and Salmissra got on rather well together. Of course, that was before Lady Polgara changed her into a snake.” The eunuch rubbed his hand absently over his scalp. “He’s not a very strong king,” he noted. “His childhood in the palace of Taur Urgas made him timid, and he backs away from any sort of confrontation. He’s a survivor, though. He’s spent his entire life just trying to stay alive, and that tends to make a man very alert.”
“You’ll be talking with him again tomorrow,” Belgarath said. “See if you can get him to give you some definite information about this ship they plan to give us. I want to get to the Isle of Verkat before the onset of winter, and various people in our party have been doing things that might attract attention, if we have to stay here too long.” He gave Eriond a reproving look.
“It wasn’t really my fault, Belgarath,” the young man protested mildly. “I didn’t like the fires in the Sanctum, that’s all.”
“Try to keep a grip on your prejudices, Eriond,” the old man said in a faintly sarcastic voice. “Let’s not get sidetracked on these moral crusades just now.”
“I’ll try, Belgarath.”
“I’d appreciate it.”
The next morning, the seneschal, Oskatat, summoned them all to another audience with the Murgo King in a brightly candlelit chamber that was smaller and less garish than the vast throne room. Garion noticed that Silk remained carefully hooded until the gray-haired functionary had left the room. Urgil and Sadi spoke quietly together while the rest of them sat unobtrusively in the chairs lining the wall.
“It was probably the first hint that anyone really had that my father’s brains were starting to come off their hinges,” the Murgo King was saying. He was dressed again in his purple doublet and hose and was sprawled in a chair with his feet thrust out in front of him. “He was suddenly seized with the wild ambition to make himself Overking of Angarak. Personally, I think that Ctuchik planted the notion in his head as a means of irritating Urvon. Anyway,” he continued, twisting the heavy gold ring on one of his fingers, “it took the combined efforts of all his generals to convince my manic father that Zakath’s army was about five times the size of ours and that Zakath could squash him like a bug any time he chose. Once that notion had finally seeped into his head, he went absolutely wild.”
“Oh?” Sadi said.
Urgit grinned. “Threw himself on the floor and started chewing on the carpet. After he calmed down, he decided to try subversion instead. He inundated Mallorea with Murgo agents—and Murgos are probably the clumsiest spies in the world. To keep it short—Zakath was about nineteen at the time and desperately in love with a Melcene girl. Her family was deeply in debt, so my father’s agents bought up all their obligations and started putting pressure on them. The brilliant plan that emerged from my father’s diseased wits was that the girl should encourage the love-struck young Zakath, marry him, and then slip a knife between the imperial ribs at her earliest opportunity. One of the Melcenes these highly intelligent Murgo spies had bought to help them in their scheme ran to Zakath with the whole sordid story, and the girl and her entire family were immediately put to death.”
“What a tragic story,” Sadi murmured.
“You haven’t heard the best part yet. Several of the Murgo spies were persuaded to reveal the whole story— Malloreons tend to be very good persuaders—and Zakath discovered to his horror that the girl had known absolutely nothing about my father’s plan. He locked himself in his room in the palace at Mal Zeth for an entire month. When he went in, he was a pleasant, open young man who showed much promise of becoming one of Mallorea’s greatest emperors. When he came out, he was the cold-blooded monster we all know and love. He rounded up every Murgo in Mallorea—including a fair number of my father’s relatives—and he used to amuse himself by sending bits and pieces of them in ornate containers to Rak Goska, accompanied by highly insulting notes.”
“But didn’t the two of them join forces at the battle of Thull Mardu?’
Urgit laughed. “That may be the popular perception, Sadi, but in point of fact, the Imperial Princess Ce’Nedra’s army was just unlucky enough to get between two opposing Angarak monarchs. They didn’t care a thing about her or about that dungheap people call Mishrak ac Thull. All they were trying to do was kill each other. Then my addled father made the mistake of challenging King Cho-Hag of Algaria to single combat, and Cho-Hag gave him a very pointed lesson in swordsmanship.” He looked thoughtfully into the fire. “I still think I ought to send Cho-Hag some token of appreciation,” he mused.