It seemed to Garion that he would never be warm again. Despite Durnik’s best efforts to find dry firewood each night, their fires always seemed pitifully small, and the great cold around them enormously large. The ground upon which they slept was always frozen, and the chill seemed actually to seep into Garion’s bones.
His education in the Drasnian secret language continued and he became, if not adept, at least competent by the time they passed Lake Camaar and began the long, downhill grade that led to Muros.
The city of Muros in south-central Sendaria was a sprawling, unattractive place that had been since time immemorial the site of a great annual fair. Each year in late summer, Algar horsemen drove vast cattle herds through the mountains along the Great North Road to Muros where cattle buyers from all over the west gathered to await their coming. Huge sums changed hands, and, because the Algar clansmen also commonly made their yearly purchases of useful and ornamental articles at that time, merchants from as far away as Nyissa in the remote south gathered to offer their wares. A large plain which lay to the east of the city was given over entirely to the cattle pens that stretched for miles but were still inadequate to contain the herds which arrived at the height of the season. Beyond the pens to the east lay the more or less permanent encampment of the Algars.
It was to this city one midmorning at the tag end of the fair, when the cattle pens were nearly empty and most of the Algars had departed and only the most desperate merchants remained, that Silk led the three wagons laden with the hams of Mingan the Tolnedran.
The delivery of the hams took place without incident, and the wagons soon drew into an innyard near the northern outskirts of the city.
“This is a respectable inn, great lady,” Silk assured Aunt Pol as he helped her down from the wagon. “I’ve stopped here before.”
“Let’s hope so,” she said. “The inns of Muros have an unsavory reputation.”
“Those particular inns lie along the eastern edge of town,” Silk assured her delicately. “I know them well.”
“I’m certain you do,” she said with an arched eyebrow.
“My profession sometimes requires me to seek out places I might otherwise prefer to avoid,” he said blandly.
The inn, Garion noted, was surprisingly clean, and its guests seemed for the most part to be Sendarian merchants.
“I thought there’d be many different kinds of people here in Muros,” he said as he and Silk carried their bundles up to the chambers on the second floor.
“There are,” Silk said, “but each group tends to remain aloof from the others. The Tolnedrans gather in one part of town, the Drasnians in another, the Nyissans in yet another. The Earl of Muros prefers it that way. Tempers sometimes flare in the heat of the day’s business, and it’s best not to have natural enemies housed under the same roof.”
Garion nodded. “You know,” he said as they entered the chambers they had taken for their stay in Muros, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a Nyissan.”
“You’re lucky,” Silk said with distaste. “They’re an unpleasant race.”
“Are they like Murgos?”
“No,” Silk said. “The Nyissans worship Issa, the Snake-God, and it’s considered seemly among them to adopt the mannerisms of the serpent. I don’t find it at all that attractive myself. Besides, the Nyissans murdered the Rivan King, and all Alorns have disliked them since then.”
“The Rivans don’t have a king,” Garion objected.
“Not anymore,” Silk said. “They did once, though – until Queen Salmissra decided to have him murdered.”
“When was that?” Garion asked, fascinated.
“Thirteen hundred years ago,” Silk said, as if it had only been yesterday.
“Isn’t that sort of a long time to hold a grudge?” Garion asked.
“Some things are unforgivable,” Silk said shortly.
Since there was still a good part of the day left, Silk and Wolf left the inn that afternoon to search the streets of Muros for those strange, lingering traces that Wolf could apparently see or feel and which would tell him whether the object they sought had passed this way. Garion sat near the fire in the chamber he shared with Aunt Pol, trying to bake the chill out of his feet. Aunt Pol also sat by the fire, mending one of his tunics, her shining needle flickering in and out of the fabric.
“Who was the Rivan King, Aunt Pol?” he asked her. She stopped sewing.
“Why do you ask?” she said.
“Silk was telling me about Nyissans,” he said. “He told me that their queen murdered the Rivan King. Why would she do that?”
“You’re full of questions today, aren’t you?” she asked, her needle moving again.
“Silk and I talk about a lot of things as we ride along,” Garion said, pushing his feet even closer to the fire.
“Don’t burn your shoes,” she told him.
“Silk says that I’m not a Sendar,” Garion said. “He says that he doesn’t know what I am, but that I’m not a Sendar.”
“Silk talks too much,” Aunt Pol observed.
“You never tell me anything, Aunt Pol,” he said in irritation.
“I tell you everything you need to know,” she said calmly. “Right now it’s not necessary for you to know anything about Rivan kings or Nyissan queens.”
“All you want to do is keep me an ignorant child,” Garion said petulantly. “I’m almost a man, and I don’t even know what I am – or who.”
“I know who you are,” she said, not looking up.
“Who am I then?”
“You’re a young man who’s about to catch his shoes on fire,” she said.
He jerked his feet back quickly.
“You didn’t answer me,” he accused.
“That’s right,” she said in that same infuriatingly calm voice.
“Why not?”
“It’s not necessary for you to know yet. When it’s time, I’ll tell you, but not until.”
“That’s not fair,” he objected.
“The world’s full of injustice,” she said. “Now, since you’re feeling so manly, why don’t you fetch some more firewood? That’ll give you something useful to think about.”
He glared at her and stamped across the room.
“Garion,” she said.
“What?”
“Don’t even think about slamming the door.”
That evening when Wolf and Silk returned, the usually cheerful old man seemed impatient and irritable. He sat down at the table in the common room of the inn and stared moodily at the fire. “I don’t think it
passed this way,” he said finally. “There are a few places left to try, but I’m almost certain that it hasn’t been here.”
“Then we go on to Camaar?” Barak rumbled, his thick fingers combing his bristling beard.
“We must,” Wolf said. “Most likely we should have gone there first.”
“There was no way to know,” Aunt Pol told him. “Why would he go to Camaar if he’s trying to carry it to the Angarak kingdoms?”
“I can’t even be certain where he’s going,” Wolf said irritably. “Maybe he wants to keep the thing for himself. He’s always coveted it.” He stared into the fire again.
“We’re going to need some kind of cargo for the trip to Camaar,” Silk said.
Wolf shook his head. “It slows us too much,” he said. “It’s not unusual for wagons to return to Camaar from Muros without cargo, and it’s reaching the point where we’ll have to gamble our disguise for the sake of speed. It’s forty leagues to Camaar, and the weather’s turning bad. A heavy snowstorm could stop the wagons entirely, and I don’t have time to spend the whole winter mired down in a snowbank.”
Durnik dropped his knife suddenly and started to scramble to his feet.
“What’s amiss?” Barak asked quickly.
“I just saw Brill,” Durnik said. “He was in that doorway.”
“Are you sure?” Wolf demanded.
“I know him,” Durnik said grimly. “It was Brill, all right.”
Silk pounded his fist down on the table.
“Idiot!” he accused himself. “I underestimated the man.”
“That doesn’t matter now,” Mister Wolf said, and there was almost a kind of relief in his voice. “Our disguise is useless now. I think it’s time for speed.”
“I’ll see to the wagons,” Durnik said.
“No,” Wolf said. “The wagons are too slow. We’ll go to the camp of the Algars and buy good horses.” He stood up quickly.
“What of the wagons?” Durnik persisted.
“Forget them,” Wolf said. “They’re only a hindrance now. We’ll ride the wagon horses to the camp of the Algars and take only what we can conveniently carry. Let’s get ready to leave immediately. Meet me in the innyard as soon as you can.” He went quickly to the door and out into the cold night.
It was only a few minutes later that they all met near the door to the stable in the cobblestoned innyard, each carrying a small bundle. Hulking Barak jingled as he walked, and Garion could smell the oiled steel of his mail shirt. A few Bakes of snow drifted down through the frosty air and settled like tiny feathers to the frozen ground.