“Marked him,” Silk said with a grin.
“Good throw,” Barak said admiringly.
“One has picked up certain skills,” Silk said modestly. “If it was Asharak, I owed him that for deceiving me in Mingan’s counting room.”
“At least it’ll give him something to think about,” Wolf said. “There’s no point in trying to creep through town now. They know we’re here. Let’s mount and ride.” He climbed onto his horse and led the way down the street at a quick walk.
The compulsion was gone now, and Garion wanted to tell them about Asharak, but there was no chance for that as they rode.
Once they reached the outskirts of the city, they nudged their horses into a fast canter. The snow was falling more seriously now, and the hoof churned ground in the vast cattle pens was already faintly dusted with white.
“It’s going to be a cold night,” Silk shouted as they rode.
“We could always go back to Muros,” Barak suggested. “Another scuffle or two might warm your blood.”
Silk laughed and put his heels to his horse again.
The encampment of the Algars was three leagues to the east of Muros. It was a large area surrounded by a stout palisade of poles set in the ground. The snow by now was falling thickly enough to make the camp look hazy and indistinct. The gate, flanked by hissing torches, was guarded by two fierce-looking warriors in leather leggings, snow-dusted jerkins of the same material, and pot-shaped steel helmets. The points of their lances glittered in the torchlight.
“Halt,” one of the warriors commanded, leveling his lance at Mister Wolf. “What business have you here at this time of night?”
“I have urgent need of speaking with your herd master,” Wolf replied politely. “May I step down?”
The two guards spoke together briefly.
“You may come down,” one of them said. “Your companions, however, must withdraw somewhat – but not beyond the light.”
“Algars!” Silk muttered under his breath. “Always suspicious.”
Mister Wolf climbed down from his horse, and, throwing back his hood, approached the two guards through the snow.
Then a strange thing happened. The elder of the two guards stared at Mister Wolf, taking in his silver hair and beard. His eyes suddenly opened very wide. He quickly muttered something to his companion, and the two men bowed deeply to Wolf.
“There isn’t time for that,” Wolf said in annoyance. “Convey me to your herd master.”
“At once, Ancient One,” the elder guard said quickly and hurried to open the gate.
“What was that about?” Garion whispered to Aunt Pol.
“Algars are superstitious,” she said shortly. “Don’t ask so many questions.”
They waited with snow settling down upon them and melting on their horses. After about a half hour, the gate opened again and two dozen mounted Algars, fierce in their rivet-studded leather vests and steel helmets, herded six saddled horses out into the snow.
Behind them Mister Wolf walked, accompanied by a tall man with his head shaved except for a flowing scalp lock.
“You have honored our camp by your visit, Ancient One,” the tall man was saying, “and I wish you all speed on your journey.”
“I have little fear of being delayed with Algar horses under us,” Wolf replied.
“My riders will accompany you along a route they know which will put you on the far side of Muros within a few hours,” the tall man said. “They will then linger for a time to be certain you are not followed.”
“I cannot express my gratitude, noble herd master,” Wolf said, bowing.
“It is I who am grateful for the opportunity to be of service,” the herd master said, also bowing.
The change to their new horses took only a minute. With half of their contingent of Algars leading and the other half bringing up the rear, they turned and rode back toward the west through the dark, snowy night.
Chapter Ten
GRADUALLY, ALMOST IMPERCEPTIBLY, the darkness became paler as the softly falling snow made indistinct even the arrival of morning. Their seemingly inexhaustible horses pounded on through the growing light, the sound of their hooves muffled by the snow now lying fetlock-deep on the broad surface of the Great North Road. Garion glanced back once and saw the jumbled tracks of their passage stretching behind them and, already at the hazy gray limit of his vision, beginning to fill with concealing snow.
When it was fully light, Mister Wolf reined in his steaming horse and proceeded at a walk for a time.
“How far have we come?” he asked Silk.
The weasel-faced man who had been shaking the snow out of the folds of his cloak looked around, trying to pick out a landmark in the misty veil of dropping flakes.
“Ten leagues,” he said finally. “Perhaps a bit more.”
“This is a miserable way to travel,” Barak rumbled, wincing slightly as he shifted his bulk in the saddle.
“Think of how your horse must feel.” Silk grinned at him.
“How far is it to Camaar?” Aunt Pol asked.
“Forty leagues from Muros,” Silk told her.
“We’ll need shelter then,” she said. “We can’t gallop forty leagues without rest, no matter who’s behind us.”
“I don’t think we need to worry about pursuit just now,” Wolf said. “The Algars will detain Brill and his hirelings or even Asharak if they try to follow us.”
“At least there’s something Algars are good for,” Silk said dryly.
“If I remember correctly, there should be an imperial hostel about five leagues farther to the west,” Wolf said. “We ought to reach it by noon.”
“Will we be allowed to stay there?” Durnik asked doubtfully. “I’ve never heard that Tolnedrans are noted for hospitality.”
“Tolnedrans will sell anything for a price,” Silk said. “The hostel would be a good place to stop. Even if Brill or Asharak should evade the Algars and follow us there, the legionnaires won’t permit any foolishness within their walls.”
“Why should there be Tolnedran soldiers in Sendaria?” Garion asked, feeling a brief surge of patriotic resentment at the thought.
“Wherever the great roads are, you’ll find the legions,” Silk said. “Tolnedrans are even better at writing treaties than they are at giving short weight to their customers.”
Mister Wolf chuckled. “You’re inconsistent, Silk,” he said. “You don’t object to their highways, but you dislike their legions. You can’t have the one without the other.”
“I’ve never pretended to be consistent,” the sharp-nosed man said airily. “If we want to reach the questionable comfort of the imperial hostel by noon, hadn’t we better move along? I wouldn’t want to deny His Imperial Majesty the opportunity to pick my pocket.”
“All right,” Wolf said, “let’s ride.” And he put his heels to the flanks of the Algar horse which had already begun to prance impatiently under him.
The hostel, when they reached it in the full light of snowy noon, proved to be a series of stout buildings surrounded by an even stouter wall. The legionnaires who manned it were not the same sort of men as the Tolnedran merchants Garion had seen before. Unlike the oily men of commerce, these were hard-faced professional fighting men in burnished breastplates and plumed helmets. They carried themselves proudly, even arrogantly, each bearing the knowledge that the might of all Tolnedra was behind him.
The food in the dining hall was plain and wholesome, but dreadfully expensive. The tiny sleeping cubicles were scrupulously clean, with hard, narrow beds and thick woolen blankets, and were also expensive. The stables were neat, and they too reached deeply into Mister Wolf’s purse. Garion wondered at the thought of how much their lodging was costing, but Wolf paid for it all with seeming indifference as if his purse were bottomless.
“We’ll rest here until tomorrow,” the white-bearded old man announced when they had finished eating. “Maybe it will snow itself out by morning. I’m not happy with all this plunging blindly through a snowstorm. Too many things can hide in our path in such weather.”
Garion, who by now was numb with exhaustion, heard these words gratefully as he half drowsed at the table. The others sat talking quietly, but he was too tired to listen to what they said.
“Garion,” Aunt Pol said finally, “why don’t you go to bed?”
“I’m all right, Aunt Pol,” he said, rousing himself quickly, mortified once more at being treated like a child.
“Now, Garion,” she said in that infuriating tone he knew so well. It seemed that all his life she had been saying “Now, Garion,” to him. But he knew better than to argue.
He stood up and was surprised to feel that his legs were trembling. Aunt Pol also rose and led him from the dining hall.
“I can find my way by myself,” he objected.
“Of course,” she said. “Now come along.”
After he had crawled into bed in his cubicle, she pulled his blankets up firmly around his neck. “Stay covered,” she told him. “I don’t want you taking cold.” She laid her cool hand briefly on his forehead as she had done when he was a small child.