Silk touched Garion’s shoulder with a cautionary hand when they entered and saw the Murgo, then he stepped forward. “Forgive me, noble merchant,” he said ingratiatingly. “I didn’t know you were occupied. My porter and I will wait outside until you have time for us.”
“My friend and I will be busy for most of the day,” the Tolnedran said. “Is it something important?”
“I was just wondering if you might have a cargo for me,” Silk replied.
“No,” the Tolnedran said shortly. “Nothing.” He started to turn back to the Murgo, then stopped and looked sharply at Silk. “Aren’t you Ambar of Kotu?” he asked. “I thought you dealt in spices.”
Garion recognized the name Silk had given the watchmen at the gates of the city. It was evident that the little man had used the name before.
“Alas,” Silk sighed. “My last venture lies at the bottom of the sea just off the hook of Arendia – two full shiploads bound for Tol Honeth. A sudden storm and I am a pauper.”
“A tragic tale, worthy Ambar,” the Tolnedran master merchant said, somewhat smugly.
“I’m now reduced to freighting produce,” Silk said morosely. “I have three rickety wagons, and that’s all that’s left of the empire of Ambar of Kotu.”
“Reverses come to us all,” the Tolnedran said philosophically.
“So this is the famous Ambar of Kotu,” the Murgo said, his harshly accented voice quite soft. He looked Silk up and down, his black eyes probing. “It was a fortunate chance that brought me out today. I am enriched by meeting so illustrious a man.”
Silk bowed politely. “You’re too kind, noble sir,” he said.
“I am Asharak of Rak Goska,” the Murgo introduced himself. He turned to the Tolnedran. “We can put aside our discussion for a bit, Mingan,” he said. “We will accrue much honor by assisting so great a merchant to begin recouping his losses.”
“You’re too kind, worthy Asharak,” Silk said, bowing again. Garion’s mind was shrieking all kinds of warnings, but the Murgo’s sharp eyes made it impossible for him to make the slightest gesture to Silk. He kept his face impassive and his eyes dull even as his thoughts raced.
“I would gladly help you, my friend,” Mingan said, “but I have no cargo in Darine at the moment.”
“I’m already committed from Darine to Medalia,” Silk said quickly. “Three wagonloads of Cherek iron. And I also have a contract to move furs from Muros to Camaar. It’s the fifty leagues from Medalia to Muros that concerns me. Wagons traveling empty earn no profit.”
“Medalia.” Mingan frowned. “Let me examine my records. It seems to me that I do have something there.” He stepped out of the room. “Your exploits are legendary in the kingdoms of the east, Ambar,”
Asharak of Rak Goska said admiringly. “When last I left Cthol Murgos there was still a kingly price on your head.”
Silk laughed easily. “A minor misunderstanding, Asharak,” he said. “I was merely investigating the extent of Tolnedran intelligence gathering activities in your kingdom. I took some chances I probably shouldn’t have, and the Tolnedrans found out what I was up to. The charges they leveled at me were fabrications.”
“How did you manage to escape?” Asharak asked. “The soldiers of King Taur Urgas nearly dismantled the kingdom searching for you.”
“I chanced to meet a Thullish lady of high station,” Silk said. “I managed to prevail upon her to smuggle me across the border into Mishrak ac Thull.”
“Ah,” Asharak said, smiling briefly. “Thullish ladies are notoriously easy to prevail upon.”
“But most demanding,” Silk said. “They expect full repayment for any favors. I found it more difficult to escape from her than I did from Cthol Murgos.”
“Do you still perform such services for your government?” Asharak asked casually.
“They won’t even talk to me,” Silk said with a gloomy expression. “Ambar the spice merchant is useful to them, but Ambar the poor wagoneer is quite another thing.”
“Of course,” Asharak said, and his tone indicated that he obviously did not believe what he had been told. He glanced briefly and without seeming interest at Garion, and Garion felt a strange shock of recognition. Without knowing exactly how it was that he knew, he was instantly sure that Asharak of Rak Goska had known him for all of his life. There was a familiarity in that glance, a familiarity that had grown out of the dozen times or more that their eyes had met while Garion was growing up and Asharak, muffled always in a black cloak and astride a black horse, had stopped and watched and then moved on. Garion returned the gaze without expression, and the faintest hint of a smile flickered across Asharak’s scarred face.
Mingan returned to the room then. “I have some hams on a farm near Medalia,” he announced. “When do you expect to arrive in Muros?”
“Fifteen or twenty days,” Silk told him.
Mingan nodded. “I’ll give you a contract to move my hams to Muros,” he offered. “Seven silver nobles per wagonload.”
“Tolnedran nobles or Sendarian?” Silk asked quickly.
“This is Sendaria, worthy Ambar.”
“We’re citizens of the world, noble merchant,” Silk pointed out. “Transactions between us have always been in Tolnedran coin.”
Mingan sighed. “You were ever quick, worthy Ambar,” he said.”Very well, Tolnedran nobles – because we are old friends, and I grieve for your misfortunes.”
“Perhaps we’ll meet again, Ambar,” Asharak said.
“Perhaps,” Silk said, and he and Garion left the counting room. “Skinflint,” Silk muttered when they reached the street. “The rate should have been ten, not seven.”
“What about the Murgo?” Garion asked. Once again there was the familiar reluctance to reveal too much about the strange, unspoken link that had existed between him and the figure that now at least had a name.
Silk shrugged.
“He knows I’m up to something, but he doesn’t know exactly what just as I know that he’s up to something. I’ve had dozens of meetings like that. Unless our purposes happen to collide, we won’t interfere with each other. Asharak and I are both professionals.”
“You’re a very strange person, Silk,” Garion said.
Silk winked at him.
“Why were you and Mingan arguing about the coins?” Garion asked.
“Tolnedran coins are a bit purer,” Silk told him. “They’re worth more.”
“I see,” Garion said.
The next morning they all mounted the wagons again and delivered their turnips to the warehouse of the Drasnian merchant. Then, their wagons rumbling emptily, they rolled out of Darine, bound toward the south.
The rain had ceased, but the morning was overcast and blustery.
On the hill outside town Silk turned to Garion, who rode beside him.
“Very well,” he said,”let’s begin.” He moved his fingers in front of Garion’s face. “This means `Good morning.’ ”
Chapter Eight
AFTER THE FIRST DAY the wind blew itself out, and the pale autumn sun reappeared. Their route southward led them along the Darine River, a turbulent stream that rushed down from the mountains on its way to the Gulf of Cherek. The country was hilly and timbered but, since the wagons were empty, their horses made good time.
Garion paid scant attention to the scenery as they trundled up the valley of the Darine. His attention was riveted almost totally on Silk’s flickering fingers.
“Don’t shout,” Silk instructed as Garion practiced.
“Shout?” Garion asked, puzzled.
“Keep your gestures small. Don’t exaggerate them. The idea is to make the whole business inconspicuous.”
“I’m only practicing,” Garion said.
“Better to break bad habits before they become too strong,” Silk said. “And be careful not to mumble.”
“Mumble?”
“Form each phrase precisely. Finish one before you go on to the next. Don’t worry about speed. That comes with time.”
By the third day their conversations were half in words and half in gestures, and Garion was beginning to feel quite proud of himself. They pulled off the road into a grove of tall cedars that evening and formed up their usual half circle with the wagons.
“How goes the instruction?” Mister Wolf asked as he climbed down.
“It progresses,” Silk said. “I expect it will go more rapidly when the boy outgrows his tendency to use baby talk.”
Garion was crushed.
Barak, who was also dismounting, laughed.
“I’ve often thought that the secret language might be useful to know,” he said, “but fingers built to grip a sword are not nimble enough for it.” He held out his huge hand and shook his head.
Durnik lifted his face and sniffed at the air. “It’s going to be cold tonight,” he said. “We’ll have frost before morning.”
Barak also sniffed, and then he nodded. “You’re right, Durnik,” he rumbled. “We’ll need a good fire tonight.” He reached into the wagon and lifted out his axe.
“There are riders coming,” Aunt Pol announced, still seated on the wagon.
They all stopped talking and listened to the faint drumming sound on the road they had just left.