“A Vorduvian we met said that the Horbites are using poison,” Silk said.
“They all are.” Grinneg wore a slightly disgusted look. “The Horbites are just a little more obvious about it, that’s all. If Ran Borune dies tomorrow, though, Kador will be the next Emperor.”
Mister Wolf frowned. “I’ve never had much success dealing with the Vorduvians. They don’t really have imperial stature.”
“The old Emperor’s still in pretty fair health,” Grinneg said. “If he hangs on for another year or two, the Honeths will probably fall into line behind one candidate – whichever one survives – and then they’ll be able to bring all their money to bear on the situation. These things take time, though. The candidates themselves are staying out of town for the most part, and they’re all being extremely careful, so the assassins are having a great deal of difficulty reaching them.” He laughed, taking a long drink of ale. “They’re a funny people.”
“Could we go to the palace now?” Mister Wolf asked.
“We’ll want to change clothes first,” Aunt Pol said firmly.
“Again, Polgara?” Wolf gave her a long-suffering look.
“Just do it, father,” she said. “I won’t let you embarrass us by wearing rags to the palace.”
“I’m not going to wear that robe again.” The old man’s voice was stubborn.
“No,” she said. “It wouldn’t be suitable. I’m sure the ambassador can lend you a mantle. You won’t be quite so obvious that way.”
“Whatever you say, Pol.” Wolf sighed, giving up.
After they had changed, Grinneg formed up his honorguard, a grimlooking group of Cherek warriors, and they were escorted along the broad avenues of Tol Honeth toward the palace. Garion, all bemused by the opulence of the city and feeling just a trifle giddy from the effects of the half tankard of ale he had drunk, rode quietly beside Silk, trying not to gawk at the huge buildings or the richly dressed Tolnedrans strolling with grave decorum in the noonday sun.
Chapter Sixteen
THE IMPERIAL PALACE Sat on a high hill in the center of Tol Honeth. It consisted not of one building, but rather was a complex of many, large and small, all built of marble and surrounded by gardens and lawns where cypress trees cast a pleasing shade. The entire compound was enclosed by a high wall, surmounted by statues spaced at intervals along its top. The legionnaires at the palace gate recognized the Cherek ambassador and sent immediately for one of the Emperor’s chamberlains, a gray-haired official in a brown mantle.
“I need to see Ran Borune, Lord Morin,” Grinneg told him as they all dismounted in a marble courtyard just inside the palace gate. “It’s a matter of urgency.”
“Of course, Lord Grinneg,” the gray-haired man assented. “His Imperial Highness is always delighted to speak with the personal envoy of King Anheg. Unfortunately, his Highness is resting just now. I should be able to get you in to see him sometime this afternoon – tomorrow morning at the latest.”
“This won’t wait, Morin,” Grinneg said. “We have to see the Emperor immediately. You’d better go wake him up.”
Lord Morin looked surprised. “It can’t be that urgent,” he suggested chillingly.
“I’m afraid so,” Grinneg said.
Morin pursed his lips thoughtfully as he looked at each member of the party.
“You know me well enough to realize that I wouldn’t ask this lightly, Morin,” Grinneg said.
Morin sighed. “I’m trusting you a great deal, Grinneg. All right. Come along. Ask your soldiers to wait.”
Grinneg made a curt gesture to his guards, and the party followed Lord Morin through a broad courtyard to a columned gallery that ran along one of the buildings.
“How’s he been?” Grinneg asked as they walked along the shady gallery.
“His health is still good,” Morin answered, “but his temper’s been deteriorating lately. The Borunes have been resigning their posts in flocks and returning to Tol Borune.”
“That seems prudent under the circumstances,” Grinneg said. “I suspect that a certain number of fatalities are likely to accompany the succession.”
“Probably so,” Morin agreed, “but his Highness finds it a bit distressing to be abandoned by members of his own family.” He stopped by an arched marble gate where two legionnaires in gold-embellished breastplates stood stiffly. “Please leave your weapons here. His Highness is sensitive about such things – I’m sure you can understand.”
“Of course,” Grinneg said, pulling a heavy sword out from under his mantle and leaning it against the wall.
They all followed his example, and Lord Morin’s eyes flickered slightly with surprise when Silk removed three different daggers from various places beneath his garments. Formidable eguipment – the chamberlain’s hands flickered in the gestures of the secret language.
-Troubled times-Silk’s fingers explained deprecatingly.
Lord Morin smiled faintly and led them through the gate into the garden beyond. The lawn in the garden was neatly manicured. There were softly splashing fountains, and the rosebushes were all well-pruned. Fruit trees that seemed to be very old were budding, almost ready to burst into bloom in the warm sun. Sparrows bickered over nesting sites on the twisted limbs. Grinneg and the others followed Morin along a curving marble walk toward the center of the garden.
Ran Borune XXIII, Emperor of Tolnedra, was a small, elderly man, quite bald and dressed in a gold-colored mantle. He lounged in a heavy chair beneath a budding grape arbor, feeding small seeds to a bright canary perched on the arm of his chair. The Emperor had a little, beaklike nose and bright, inquisitive eyes. “I said I wanted to be left alone, Morin,” he said in a testy voice, looking up from the canary.
“A million apologies, your Highness,” Lord Morin explained, bowing deeply. “Lord Grinneg, the ambassador of Cherek, wishes to present you a matter of gravest urgency. He convinced me that it simply could not wait.”
The Emperor looked sharply at Grinneg. His eyes grew sly, almost malicious. “I see that your beard’s beginning to grow back, Grinneg.”
Grinneg’s face flushed slowly. “I should have known that your Highness would have heard of my little misfortune.”
“I know everything that happens in Tol Honeth, Lord Grinneg,” the Emperor snapped. “Even if all my cousins and nephews are running like rats out of a burning house, I still have a few faithful people around me. Whatever possessed you to take up with that Nadrak woman? I thought you Alorns despised Angaraks.”
Grinneg coughed awkwardly and glanced quickly at Aunt Pol. “It was a kind of joke, your Highness,” he said. “I thought it might embarrass the Nadrak ambassador – and his wife is, after all, a handsomelooking woman. I didn’t know she kept a pair of scissors under her bed.”
“She keeps your beard in a little gold box, you know.” The emperor smirked. “And she shows it to all her friends.”
“She’s an evil woman,” Grinneg said mournfully.
“Who are these?” the Emperor asked, waving one finger at the members of the party standing on the grass somewhat behind Ambassador Grinneg.
“My cousin Barak and some friends,” Grinneg said. “They’re the ones who have to talk to you.”
“The Earl of Trellheim?” the Emperor asked. “What are you doing in Tol Honeth, my Lord?”
“Passing through, your Highness,” Barak replied, bowing.
Ran Borune looked sharply at each of the rest in turn as if actually seeing them for the first time. “And this would be Prince Kheldar of Drasnia,” he said, “who left Tol Honeth in a hurry last time he was here – posing as an acrobat in a traveling circus, I believe, and about one jump ahead of the police.”
Silk also bowed politely.
“And Hettar of Algaria,” the Emperor continued, “the man who’s trying to depopulate Cthol Murgos singlehandedly.”
Hettar inclined his head.
“Morin,” the Emperor demanded sharply, “why have you surrounded me with Alorns? I don’t like Alorns.”
“It’s this matter of urgency, your Highness,” Morin replied apologetically.
“And an Arend?” the Emperor said, looking at Mandorallen. “A Mimbrate, I should say.” His eyes narrowed. “From the descriptions I’ve heard, he could only be the Baron of Vo Mandor.”
Mandorallen’s bow was gracefully elaborate. “Throe eye is most keen, your Highness, to have read us each in turn without prompting.”
“Not all of you precisely,” the Emperor said. “I don’t recognize the Sendar or the Rivan lad.”
Garion’s mind jumped. Barak had once told him that he resembled a Rivan more than anything else, but that thought had been lost in the welter of events which had followed the chance remark. Now the Emperor of Tolnedra, whose eye seemed to have an uncanny ability to penetrate to the true nature of things, had also identified him as a Rivan. He glanced quickly at Aunt Pol, but she seemed absorbed in examining the buds on a rosebush.
“The Sendar is Durnik,” Mister Wolf said, “a smith. In Sendaria that useful trade is considered somewhat akin to nobility. The lad is my grandson, Garion.”