A bridge arched gracefully across the rippled face of the Nedrane to the bronze expanse of the north gate where a glittering detachment of legionnaires marched perpetual guard.
Silk pulled on his conservative cloak and cap and drew himself up, his face assuming that sober, businesslike expression that meant that he was undergoing a private internal transition that seemed to make him almost believe himself that he was the Drasnian merchant whose identity he assumed.
“Your business in Tol Honeth?” one of the legionnaires asked politely. “I am Radek of Boktor,” Silk said with the preoccupied air of a man whose mind was on business. “I have Sendarian woolens of the finest quality.”
“You’ll probably want to talk with the Steward of the Central Market, then,” the legionnaire suggested.
“Thank you.” Silk nodded and led them through the gate into the broad and crowded streets beyond.
“I think I’d better stop by the palace and have a talk with Ran Borune,” Mister Wolf said. “The Borunes aren’t the easiest emperors to deal with, but they’re the most intelligent. I shouldn’t have too much trouble convincing him that the situation’s serious.”
“How are you going to get to see him?” Aunt Pol asked him. “It could take weeks to get an appointment. You know how they are.”
Mister Wolf made a sour face. “I suppose I could make a ceremonial visit of it,” he said as they pushed their horses through the crowd.
“And announce your presence to the whole city?”
“Do I have any choice? I have to nail down the Tolnedrans. We can’t afford to have them neutral.”
“Could I make a suggestion?” Barak asked.
“I’ll listen to anything at this point.”
“Why don’t we go see Grinneg?” Barak said. “He’s the Cherek Ambassador here in Tol Honeth. He could get us into the palace to see the Emperor without all that much fuss.”
“That’s not a bad idea, Belgarath,” Silk agreed. “Grinneg’s got enough connections in the palace to get us inside quickly, and Ran Borune respects him.”
“That only leaves the problem of getting in to see the ambassador,” Durnik said as they stopped to let a heavy wagon pass into a side street.
“He’s my cousin,” Barak said. “He and Anheg and I used to play together when we were children.” The big man looked around. “He’s supposed to have a house near the garrison of the Third Imperial Legion. I suppose we could ask somebody the way.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Silk said. “I know where it is.”
“I should have known.” Barak grinned.
“We can go through the north marketplace,” Silk said. “The garrison’s located near the main wharves on the downstream end of the island.”
“Lead the way,” Wolf told him. “I don’t want to waste too much time here.”
The streets of Tol Honeth teemed with people from all over the world. Drasnians and Rivans rubbed elbows with Nyissans and Thulls. There was a sprinkling of Nadraks in the crowd and, to Garion’s eye, a disproportionate number of Murgos. Aunt Pol rode close beside Hettar, talking quietly to him and frequently laying her hand lightly on his sword arm. The lean Algar’s eyes burned, and his nostrils flared dangerously each time he saw a scarred Murgo face.
The houses along the wide streets were imposing, with white marble facades and heavy doors, quite often guarded by private mercenary soldiers, who glared belligerently at passers-by.
“The Imperial City seems awash with suspicion,” Mandorallen observed. “Do they fear their neighbors so?”
“Troubled times,” Silk explained. “And the merchant princes of Tol Honeth keep a great deal of the world’s wealth in their counting-rooms. There are men along this street who could buy most of Arendia if they wanted to.”
“Arendia is not for sale,” Mandorallen said stiffly.
“In Tol Honeth, my dear Baron, everything’s for sale,” Silk told him. “Honor, virtue, friendship, love. It’s a wicked city full of wicked people, and money’s the only thing that matters.”
“I expect you fit right in, then,” Barak said.
Silk laughed. “I like Tol Honeth,” he admitted. “The people here have no illusions. They’re refreshingly corrupt.”
“You’re a bad fan, Silk,” Barak stated bluntly.
“So you’ve said before,” the rat-faced little Drasnian said with a mocking grin.
The banner of Cherek, the outline of a white war-boat on an azure background, fluttered from a pole surmounting the gate of the ambassador’s house. Barak dismounted a bit stiffly and strode to the iron grill which blocked the gate. “Tell Grinneg that his cousin Barak is here to see him,” he announced to the bearded guards inside.
“How do we know you’re his cousin?” one of the guards demanded roughly.
Barak reached through the grill almost casually and took hold of the front of the guard’s mail shirt. He pulled the man up firmly against the barn. “Would you like to rephrase that question,” he asked, “while you still have your health?”
“Excuse me, Lord Barak,” the man apologized quickly. “Now that I’m closer, I do seem to recognize your face.”
“I was almost sure you would,” Barak said.
“Let me unlock the gate for you,” the guard suggested.
“Excellent idea,” Barak said, letting go of the man’s shirt. The guard opened the gate quickly, and the party rode into a spacious courtyard.
Grinneg, the ambassador of King Anheg to the Imperial Court at Tol Honeth, was a burly man almost as big as Barak. His beard was trimmed very short, and he wore a Tolnedran-style blue mantle. He came down the stairs two at a time and caught Barak in a vast bear hug. “You pirate!” he roared. “What are you doing in Tol Honeth?”
“Anheg’s decided to invade the place,” Barak joked. “As soon as we’ve rounded up all the gold and young women, we’re going to let you burn the city.”
Grinneg’s eyes glittered with a momentary hunger. “Wouldn’t that infuriate them?” he said with a vicious grin.
“What happened to your beard?” Barak asked.
Grinneg coughed and looked embarrassed. “It’s not important,” he said quickly.
“We’ve never had any secrets,” Barak accused.
Grinneg spoke quietly to his cousin for a moment, looking very ashamed of himself, and Barak burst out with a great roar of laughter. “Why did you let her do that?” he demanded.
“I was drunk,” Grinneg said. “Let’s go inside. I’ve got a keg of good ale in my cellar.”
The rest of them followed the two big men into the house, and they went down a broad hallway to a room with Cherek furnishings – heavy chairs and benches covered with skins, a rush-strewn floor and a huge fireplace where the butt end of a large log smoldered. Several pitchsmeared torches smoked in iron rings on the stone wall.
“I feel more at home here,” Grinneg said.
A servant brought tankards of dark brown ale for them all and then quietly left the room. Garion quickly lifted his tankard and took a large swallow of the bitter drink before Aunt Pol could suggest something more bland. She watched him without comment, her eyes expressionless.
Grinneg sprawled in a large, hand-hewn chair with a bearskin tossed over it. “Why are you really in Tol Honeth, Barak?” he asked.
“Grinneg,” Barak said serously, “this is Belgarath. I’m sure you’ve heard of him.”
The ambassador’s eyes widened, and he inclined his head. “My house is yours,” he said respectfully.
“Can you get me in to see Ran Borune?” Mister Wolf asked, sitting on a rough bench near the fireplace.
“Without any difficulty.”
“Good,” Wolf said. “I have to talk to him, and I don’t want to stir up any fuss in the process.”
Barak introduced the others, and his cousin nodded politely to each of them.
“You’ve come to Tol Honeth during a turbulent period,” he said after the amenities were over. “The nobility of Tolnedra are gathering in the city like ravens on a dead cow.”
“We picked up a hint or two of that on our way south,” Silk told him. “Is it as bad as we heard?”
“Probably worse,” Grinneg said, scratching one ear. “Dynastic succession only happens a few times in each eon. The Borunes have been in power now for over six hundred years, and the other houses are anticipating the changeover with a great deal of enthusiasm.”
“Who’s the most likely to succeed Ran Borune?” Mister Wolf asked.
“Right at the moment the best would probably be the Grand Duke Kador of Tol Vordue,” Grinneg answered. “He seems to have more money than the rest. The Honeths are richer, of course, but they’ve got seven candidates, and their wealth is spread out a little too thin. The other families aren’t really in the running. The Borunes don’t have anyone suitable, and no one takes the Ranites seriously.”
Garion carefully set his tankard on the floor beside the stool he sat on. The bitter ale didn’t really taste that good, and he felt vaguely cheated somehow. The half tankard he had drunk made his ears quite warm, though, and the end of his nose seemed a little numb.