“Aunt Pol?” he asked drowsily.
“Yes, Garion?”
“Who were my parents? I mean, what were their names?”
She looked at him gravely. “We can talk about that later,” she said.
“I want to know,” he said stubbornly.
“All right. Your father’s name was Geran; your mother’s was Ildera.”
Garion thought about that.
“The names don’t sound Sendarian,” he said finally.
“They’re not,” Aunt Pol said.
“Why was that?”
“It’s a very long story,” she said, “and you’re much too tired to hear it just now.”
On a sudden impulse he reached out and touched the white lock at her brow with the mark on the palm of his right hand. As had some times happened before, a window seemed to open in his mind at the tingling touch, but this time that window opened on something much more serious. There was anger, and a single face-a face that was strangely like Mister Wolf’s, but was not his face, and all the towering fury in the world was directed at that face.
Aunt Pol moved her head away. “I’ve asked you not to do that, Garion,” she said, her tone very matter-of fact. “You’re not ready for it yet.
“You’re going to have to tell me what it is someday,” he said.
“Perhaps,” she said, “but not now. Close your eyes and go to sleep.”
And then, as if that command had somehow dissolved his will, he fell immediately into a deep, untroubled sleep.
By the next morning it had stopped snowing. The world outside the walls of the imperial hostel was mantled in thick, unbroken white, and the air was filmy with a kind of damp haze that was almost-but not quite-fog.
“Misty Sendaria,” Silk said ironically at breakfast. “Sometimes I’m amazed that the entire kingdom doesn’t rust shut.”
They traveled all that day at a mile-eating canter, and that night there was another imperial hostel, almost identical to the one they had left that morning – so closely identical in fact that it almost seemed to Garion that they had ridden all day and merely arrived back where they had started. He commented on that to Silk as they were putting their horses in the stable.
“Tolnedrans are nothing if not predictable,” Silk said. “All their hostels are exactly the same. You can find these same buildings in Drasnia, Algaria, Arendia and any place else their great roads go. It’s their one weakness – this lack of imagination.”
“Don’t they get tired of doing the same thing over and over again?”
“It makes them feel comfortable, I guess.” Silk laughed. “Let’s go see about supper.”
It snowed again the following day, but by noon Garion caught a scent other than that faintly dusty odor snow always seemed to have. Even as he had done when they had approached Darine, he began to smell the sea, and he knew their journey was almost at an end.
Camaar, the largest city in Sendaria and the major seaport of the north, was a sprawling place which had existed at the mouth of the Greater Camaar River since antiquity. It was the natural western terminus of the Great North Road which stretched to Boktor in Drasnia and the equally natural northern end of the Great West Road which reached down across Arendia into Tolnedra and the imperial capital at Tol Honeth. With some accuracy it could be said that all roads ended at Camaar.
Late on a chill, snowy afternoon, they rode down a gradual hill toward the city. Some distance from the gate, Aunt Pol stopped her horse. “Since we’re no longer posing as vagabonds,” she announced, “I see no further need for selecting the most disreputable inns, do you?”
“I hadn’t really thought about it,” Mister Wolf said.
“Well, I have,” she said. “I’ve had more than enough of wayside hostels and seedy village inns. I need a bath, a clean bed and some decent food. If you don’t mind, I’ll choose our lodging this time.”
“Of course, Pol,” Wolf said mildly. “Whatever you say.”
“Very well, then,” she said and rode on toward the city gate with the rest of them trailing behind her.
“What is your business in Camaar?” one of the fur-mantled guards at the broad gate asked rather rudely.
Aunt Pol threw back her hood and fixed the man with a steely gaze. “I am the Duchess of Erat,” she announced in ringing tones. “These are my retainers, and my business in Camaar is my own affair.”
The guard blinked and then bowed respectfully.
“Forgive me, your Grace,” he said. “I didn’t intend to give offense.”
“Indeed?” Aunt Pol said, her tone still cold and her gaze still dangerous.
“I did not recognize your Grace,” the poor man floundered, squirming under that imperious stare. “May I offer any assistance?”
“I hardly think so,” Aunt Pol said, looking him up and down. “Which is the finest inn in Camaar?”
“That would be the Lion, my Lady.”
“And-?” she said impatiently.
“And what, my Lady?” the man said, confused by her question.
“Where is it?” she demanded. “Don’t stand there gaping like a dolt. Speak up.”
“It lies beyond the customs houses,” the guard replied, flushing at her words. “Follow this street until you reach Customs Square. Anyone there can direct you to the Lion.”
Aunt Pol pulled her hood back up.
“Give the fellow something,” she said over her shoulder and rode on into the city without a backward glance.
“My thanks,” the guard said as Wolf leaned down to hand him a small coin. “I must admit that I haven’t heard of the Duchess of Erat before.”
“You’re a fortunate man,” Wolf said.
“She’s a great beauty,” the man said admiringly.
“And has a temper to match,” Wolf told him.
“I noticed that,” the guard said.
“We noticed you noticing,” Silk told him slyly.
They nudged their horses and caught up with Aunt Pol.
“The Duchess of Erat?” Silk asked mildly.
“The fellow’s manner irritated me,” Aunt Pol said loftily, “and I’m tired of putting on a poor face in front of strangers.”
At Customs Square Silk accosted a busy-looking merchant trudging across the snow-covered paving. “You-fellow,” he said in the most insulting way possible, pulling his horse directly in front of the startled merchant. “My mistress, the Duchess of Erat, requires directions to an inn called the Lion. Be so good as to provide them.”
The merchant blinked, his face flushing at the rat-faced man’s tone.
“Up that street,” he said shortly, pointing. “Some goodly way. It will be on your left. There’s a sign of a Lion at the front.”
Silk sniffed ungraciously, tossed a few coins into the snow at the man’s feet and whirled his horse in a grand manner. The merchant, Garion noted, looked outraged, but he did grope in the snow for the coins Silk had thrown.
“I doubt that any of these people will quickly forget our passage,” Wolf said sourly when they were some ways up the street.
“They’ll remember the passage of an arrogant noblewoman,” Silk said. “This is as good a disguise as any we’ve tried.”
When they arnved at the inn, Aunt Pol commanded not just the usual sleeping chambers but an entire apartment. “My chamberlain there will pay you,” she said to the innkeeper, indicating Mister Wolf. “Our baggage horses are some days behind with the rest of my servants, so I’ll require the services of a dressmaker and a maid. See to it.” And she turned and swept imperially up the long staircase that led to her apartment, following the servant who scurried ahead to show her the way.
“The duchess has a commanding presence, doesn’t she?” the innkeeper ventured as Wolf began counting out coins.
“She has indeed,” Wolf agreed. “I’ve discovered the wisdom of not countering her wishes.”
“I’ll be guided by you then,” the innkeeper assured him. “My youngest daughter is a serviceable girl. I’ll dispatch her to serve as her Grace’s maid.”
“Many thanks, friend,” Silk told him. “Our Lady becomes most irntable when those things she desires are delayed, and we’re the ones who suffer most from her displeasure.”
They trooped up the stairs to the apartments Aunt Pol had taken and stepped into the main sitting room, a splendid chamber far richer than any Garion had seen before. The walls were covered by tapestries with intricate pictures woven into the fabric. A wealth of candles – real wax instead of smoky tallow – gleamed in sconces on the walls and in a massive candelabra on the polished table. A good warm fire danced merrily on the hearth, and a large carpet of curious design lay on the floor.
Aunt Pol was standing before the fire, warming her hands. “Isn’t this better than some shabby, wharfside inn reeking of fish and unwashed sailors?” she asked.
“If the Duchess of Erat will forgive my saying so,” Wolf said somewhat tartly, “this is hardly the way to escape notice, and the cost of these lodgings would feed a legion for a week.”