“Finally,” Aunt Pol said.
Silk had stopped the lead wagon and came walking back. His hood was pulled back slightly, and the rain ran down his long nose to drip from its pointed tip.
“Do we stop here or go on down to the city?” he asked.
“We go to the city,” Aunt Pol said. “I’m not going to sleep under a wagon when there are inns so close at hand.”
“Honest wagoneers would seek out an inn,” Mister Wolf agreed, “and a warm taproom.”
“I might have guessed that,” Aunt Pol said.
“We have to try to look the part.” Wolf shrugged.
They went on down the hill, the horses’ hooves slipping and sliding as they braced back against the weight of the wagons.
At the city gate two watchmen in stained tunics and wearing rustspotted helmets came out of the tiny watch house just inside the gate.
“What’s your business in Darine?” one of them asked Silk.
“I am Ambar of Kotu,” Silk lied pleasantly, “a poor Drasnian merchant hoping to do business in your splendid city.”
“Splendid?” one of the watchmen snorted.
“What have you in your wagons, merchant?” the other inquired.
“Turnips,” Silk said deprecatingly. “My family has been in the spice trade for generations, but I’m reduced to peddling turnips.” He sighed. “The world is a topsy-turvy place, is it not, good friend?”
“We’re obliged to inspect your wagons,” the watchman said. “It’ll take some time, I’m afraid.”
“And a wet time at that,” Silk said, squinting up into the rain. “It would be much more pleasant to devote the time to wetting one’s inside in some friendly tavern.”
“That’s difficult when one doesn’t have much money,” the watchman suggested hopefully.
“I’d be more than pleased if you’d accept some small token of friendship from me to aid you in your wetting,” Silk offered.
“You’re most kind,” the watchman replied with a slight bow.
Some coins changed hands, and the wagons moved on into the city uninspected.
From the hilltop Darine had looked quite splendid, but Garion found it much less so as they clattered through the wet streets. The buildings all seemed the same with a kind of self important aloofness about them, and the streets were littered and dirty. The salt tang of the sea was tainted here with the smell of dead fish, and the faces of the people hurrying along were grim and unfriendly. Garion’s first excitement began to fade.
“Why are the people all so unhappy?” he asked Mister Wolf.
“They have a stern and demanding God,” Wolf replied.
“Which God is that?” Garion asked.
“Money,” Wolf said. “Money is a worse God than Torak himself.”
“Don’t fill the boy’s head with nonsense,” Aunt Pol said. “The people aren’t really unhappy, Garion. They’re just all in a hurry. They have important affairs to attend to and they’re afraid they’ll be late. That’s all.”
“I don’t think I’d like to live here,” Garion said. “It seems like a bleak, unfriendly kind of place.” He sighed. “Sometimes I wish we were all back at Faldor’s farm.”
“There are worse places than Faldor’s,” Wolf agreed.
The inn Silk chose for them was near the docks, and the smell of the sea and the rank detritus of the meeting of sea and land was strong there. The inn, however, was a stout building with stables attached and storage sheds for the wagons. Like most inns, the main floor was given over to the kitchen and the large common room with its rows of tables and large fireplaces. The upper floors provided sleeping chambers for the guests.
“It’s a suitable place,” Silk announced as he came back out to the wagons after speaking at some length with the innkeeper. “The kitchen seems clean, and I saw no bugs when I inspected the sleeping chambers.”
“I will inspect it,” Aunt Pol said, climbing down from the wagon.
“As you wish, great lady,” Silk said with a polite bow.
Aunt Pol’s inspection took much longer than Silk’s, and it was nearly dark when she returned to the courtyard. “Adequate,” she sniffed, “but only barely.”
“It’s not as if we planned to settle in for the winter, Pol,” Wolf said. “At most we’ll only be here a few days.”
She ignored that.
“I’ve ordered hot water sent up to our chambers,” she announced. “I’ll take the boy up and wash him while you and the others see to the wagons and horses. Come along, Garion.” And she turned and went back into the inn.
Garion wished fervently that they would all stop referring to him as the boy. He did, after all, he reflected, have a name, and it was not that difficult a name to remember. He was gloomily convinced that even if he lived to have a long gray beard, they would still speak of him as the boy.
After the horses and wagons had been attended to and they had all washed up, they went down again to the common room and dined. The meal certainly didn’t match up to Aunt Pol’s, but it was a welcome change from turnips. Garion was absolutely certain that he’d never be able to look a turnip in the face again for the rest of his life.
After they had eaten, the men loitered over their ale pots, and Aunt Pol’s face registered her disapproval. “Garion and I are going up to bed now,” she said to them. “Try not to fall down too many times when you come up.”
Wolf, Barak and Silk laughed at that, but Durnik, Garion thought, looked a bit shamefaced.
The next day Mister Wolf and Silk left the inn early and were gone all day. Garion had positioned himself in a strategic place in hopes that he might be noticed and asked to go along, but he was not; so when Durnik went down to look after the horses, he accompanied him instead.
“Durnik,” he said after they had fed and watered the animals and the smith was examining their hooves for cuts or stone bruises, “does all this seem strange to you?”
Durnik carefully lowered the leg of the patient horse he was checking.
“All what, Garion?” he asked, his plain face sober.
“Everything,” Garion said rather vaguely. “This journey, Barak and Silk, Mister Wolf and Aunt Pol – all of it. They all talk sometimes when they don’t think I can hear them. This all seems terribly important, but I can’t tell if we’re running away from someone or looking for something.”
“It’s confusing to me as well, Garion,” Durnik admitted. “Many things aren’t what they seem – not what they seem at all.”
“Does Aunt Pol seem different to you?” Garion asked. “What I mean is, they all treat her as if she were a noblewoman or something, and she acts differently too, now that we’re away from Faldor’s farm.”
“Mistress Pol is a great lady,” Durnik said. “I’ve always known that.” His voice had that same respectful tone it always had when he spoke of her, and Garion knew that it was useless to try to make Durnik perceive anything unusual about her.
“And Mister Wolf,” Garion said, trying another tack. “I always thought he was just an old storyteller.”
“He doesn’t seem to be an ordinary vagabond,” Durnik admitted. “I think we’ve fallen in with important people, Garion, on important business. It’s probably better for simple folk such as you and I not to ask too many questions, but to keep our eyes and ears open.”
“Will you be going back to Faldor’s farm when this is all over?” Garion asked carefully.
Durnik considered that, looking out across the rainswept courtyard of the inn.
“No,” he said finally in a soft voice. “I’ll follow as long as Mistress Pol allows me to.”
On an impulse Garion reached out and patted the smith’s shoulder. “Everything is going to turn out for the best, Durnik.”
Durnik sighed.
“Let’s hope so,” he said and turned his attention back to the horses.
“Durnik,” Garion asked, “did you know my parents?”
“No,” Durnik said. “The first time I saw you, you were a baby in Mistress Pol’s arms.”
“What was she like then?”
“She seemed angry,” Durnik said. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone quite so angry. She talked with Faldor for a while and then went to work in the kitchen – you know Faldor. He never turned anyone away in his whole life. At first she was just a helper, but that didn’t last too long. Our old cook was getting fat and lazy, and she finally went off to live with her youngest daughter. After that, Mistress Pol ran the kitchen.”
“She was a lot younger then, wasn’t she?” Garion asked.
“No,” Durnik said thoughtfully. “Mistress Pol never changes. She looks exactly the same now as she did that first day.”
“I’m sure it only seems that way,” Garion said. “Everybody gets older.”
“Not Mistress Pol,” Durnik said.
That evening Wolf and his sharp-nosed friend returned, their faces somber.