Durnik frowned disapprovingly. “It must be a terribly boring way to live,” he said.
“Durnik,” Garion asked after a moment, “did you notice the way Barak and his wife acted toward each other?”
“It’s very sad,” Durnik said. “Silk told me about it yesterday. Barak fell in love with her when they were both very young, but she was highborn and didn’t take him very seriously.”
“How does it happen that they’re married, then?” Garion asked.
“It was her family’s idea,” Durnik explained. “After Barak became the Earl of Trellheim, they decided that a marriage would give them a valuable connection. Merel objected, but it didn’t do her any good. Silk said that Barak found out after they were married that she’s really a very shallow person, but of course it was too late by then. She does spiteful things to try to hurt him, and he spends as much time away from home as possible.”
“Do they have any children?” Garion asked.
“Two,” Durnik said. “Both girls – about five and seven. Barak loves them very much, but he doesn’t get to see them very often.”
Garion sighed. “I wish there was something we could do,” he said.
“We can’t interfere between a man and his wife,” Durnik said. “Things like that just aren’t done.”
“Did you know that Silk’s in love with his aunt?” Garion said without stopping to think.
“Garion!” Durnik’s voice was shocked. “That’s an unseemly thing to say.”
“It’s true all the same,” Garion said defensively. “Of course she’s not really his aunt, I guess. She’s his uncle’s second wife. It’s not exactly like she was his real aunt.”
“She’s married to his uncle,” Durnik said firmly. “Who made up this scandalous story?”
“Nobody made it up,” Garion said. “I was watching his face when he talked to her yesterday. It’s pretty plain the way he feels about her.”
“I’m sure you just imagined it,” Durnik said disapprovingly. He stood up. “Let’s look around. That will give us something better to do than sit here gossiping about our friends. It’s really not the sort of thing decent men do.”
“All right,” Garion agreed quickly, a little embarrassed. He stood up and followed Durnik across the smoky hall and out into the corridor. “Let’s have a look at the kitchen,” Garion suggested.
“And the smithy, too,” Durnik said.
The royal kitchens were enormous. Entire oxen roasted on spits, and whole flocks of geese simmered in lakes of gravy. Stews bubbled in cartsized cauldrons, and battalions of loaves were marched into ovens big enough to stand in. Unlike Aunt Pol’s well-ordered kitchen at Faldor’s farm, everything here was chaos and confusion. The head cook was a huge man with a red face who screamed orders which everyone ignored. There were shouts and threats and a great deal of horseplay. A spoon heated in a fire and left where an unsuspecting cook would pick it up brought shrieks of mirth, and one man’s hat was stolen and deliberately thrown into a seething pot of stew.
“Let’s go someplace else, Durnik,” he said. “This isn’t what I expected at all.”
Durnik nodded. “Mistress Pol would never tolerate all of this foolishness,” he agreed disapprovingly.
In the hallways outside the kitchen a maid with reddish-blond hair and a pale green dress cut quite low at the bodice loitered.
“Excuse me,” Durnik said to her politely, “could you direct us to the smithy?”
She looked him up and down boldly. “Are you new here?” she asked. “I haven’t seen you before.”
“We’re just visiting,” Durnik said.
“Where are you from?” she demanded.
“Sendaria,” Durnik said.
“How interesting. Perhaps the boy could run this errand for you, and you and I could talk for a while.” Her look was direct.
Durnik coughed, and his ears reddened. “The smithy?” he asked again.
The maid laughed lightly. “In the courtyard at the end on this corridor,” she said. “I’m usually around here someplace. I’m sure you can find me when you finish your business with the smith.”
“Yes,” Durnik said, “I’m sure I could. Come along, Garion.”
They went on down the corridor and out into a snowy inner courtyard.
“Outrageous!” Durnik said stiffly, his ears still flaming. “The girl has no sense of propriety whatsoever. I’d report her if I knew to whom.”
“Shocking,” Garion agreed, secretly amused by Durnik’s embarrassment. They crossed the courtyard through the lightly sifting snow.
The smithy was presided over by a huge, black-bearded man with forearms as big as Garion’s thighs. Durnik introduced himself and the two were soon happily talking shop to the accompaniment of the ringing blows of the smith’s hammer. Garion noticed that instead of the plows, spades, and hoes that would fill a Sendarian smithy, the walls here were hung with swords, spears, and war axes. At one forge an apprentice was hammering out arrowheads, and at another, a lean, one-eyed man was working on an evil-looking dagger.
Durnik and the smith talked together for most of the remainder of the morning while Garion wandered about the inner courtyard watching the various workmen at their tasks. There were coopers and wheelwrights, cobblers and carpenters, saddlers and candlemakers, all busily at work to maintain the huge household of King Anheg. As he watched, Garion also kept his eyes open for the sandy-bearded man in the green cloak he’d seen the night before. It wasn’t likely that the man would be here where honest work was being done, but Garion stayed alert all the same.
About noon, Barak came looking for them and led them back to the great hall where Silk lounged, intently watching a dice game.
“Anheg and the others want to meet privately this afternoon,” Barak said. “I’ve got an errand to run, and I thought you might want to go along.”
“That might not be a bad idea,” Silk said, tearing his eyes from the game. “Your cousin’s warriors dice badly, and I’m tempted to try a few rolls with them. It would probably be better if I didn’t. Most men take offense at losing to strangers.”
Barak grinned. “I’m sure they’d be glad to let you play, Silk,” he said. “They’ve got just as much chance of winning as you do.”
“Just as the sun has as much chance of coming up in the west as in the east,” Silk said.
“Are you that sure of your skill, friend Silk?” Durnik asked.
“I’m sure of theirs.” Silk chuckled. He jumped up. “Let’s go,” he said. “My fingers are starting to itch. Let’s get them away from temptation.”
“Anything you say, Prince Kheldar.” Barak laughed.
They all put on fur cloaks and left the palace. The snow had almost stopped, and the wind was brisk.
“I’m a bit confused by all these names,” Durnik said as they trudged toward the central part of Val Alorn. “I’ve been meaning to ask about it. You, friend Silk, are also Prince Kheldar and sometimes the merchant Ambar of Kotu, and Mister Wolf is called Belgarath, and Mistress Pol is also Lady Polgara or the Duchess of Erat. Where I come from, people usually have one name.”
“Names are like clothes, Durnik,” Silk explained. “We put on what’s most suitable for the occasion. Honest men have little need to wear strange clothes or strange names. Those of us who aren’t so honest, however, occasionally have to change one or the other.”
“I don’t find it amusing to hear Mistress Pol described as not being honest,” Durnik said stifliy.
“No disrespect intended,” Silk assured him. “Simple definitions don’t apply to Lady Polgara; and when I say that we’re not honest, I simply mean that this business we’re in sometimes requires us to conceal ourselves from people who are evil as well as devious.”
Durnik looked unconvinced but let it pass.
“Let’s take this street,” Barak suggested. “I don’t want to pass the Temple of Belar today.”
“Why?” Garion asked.
“I’m a little behind in my religious duties,” Barak said with a pained look, “and I’d rather not be reminded of it by the High Priest of Belar. His voice is very penetrating, and I don’t like being called down in front of the whole city. A prudent man doesn’t give either a priest or a woman the opportunity to scold him in public.”
The streets of Val Alorn were narrow and crooked, and the ancient stone houses were tall and narrow with overhanging second stories. Despite the intermittent snow and the crisp wind, the streets seemed full of people, most of them garbed in furs against the chill.
There was much good-humored shouting and the exchange of bawdy insults. Two elderly and dignified men were pelting each other with snowballs in the middle of one street to the raucous encouragement of the bystanders.
“They’re old friends,” Barak said with a broad grin. “They do this every day all winter long. Pretty soon they’ll go to an alehouse and get drunk and sing old songs together until they fall off their benches. They’ve been doing it for years now.”