“They’re honest merchants – here on honest business.”
“Murgos don’t have honest business,” Aunt Pol told him. “Every Murgo in Tolnedra is here because he was sent by the Grolim High Priest.”
“That’s an exaggeration,” Ran Borune said stubbornly. “The whole world knows that you and your father have an obsessive hatred of all Angaraks, but times have changed.”
“Cthol Murgos is still ruled from Rak Cthol,” Wolf said, “and Ctuchik is master there. Ctuchik hasn’t changed, even if the world has. The merchants from Rak Goska might seem civilized to you, but they all jump when Ctuchik whistles, and Ctuchik’s the disciple of Torak.”
“Torak’s dead.”
“Really?” Aunt Pol said. “Have you seen his grave? Have you opened the grave and seen his bones?”
“My Empire’s very expensive to run,” the Emperor said, “and I need the revenue the Murgos bring me. I’ve got agents in Rak Goska and all along the South Caravan Route, so I’d know if the Murgos were getting ready for any kind of move against me. I’m just a little suspicious that all this might be the result of some internal contention within the Brotherhood of Sorcerers. You people have your own motives, and I’m not going to let you use my Empire as a pawn in your power struggles.”
“And if the Angaraks win?” Aunt Pol said, “How do you plan to deal with Torak?”
“I’m not afraid of Torak.”
“Have you ever met him?” Wolf asked.
“Obviously not. Listen, Belgarath, you and your daughter have never been friendly to Tolnedra. You treated us like a defeated enemy after Vo Mimbre. Your information’s interesting, and I’ll consider it in its proper perspective, but Tolnedran policy is not dominated by Alorn preconceptions. Our economy relies heavily on trade along the South Caravan Route. I’m not going to disrupt my Empire simply because you happen to dislike Murgos.”
“You’re a fool then,” Wolf said bluntly.
“You’d be surprised at how many people think so,” the Emperor replied. “Maybe you’ll have better luck with my successor. If he’s a Vorduvian or a Honeth, you might even be able to bribe him, but Borunes don’t take bribes.”
“Or advice,” Aunt Pol added.
“Only when it suits us, Lady Polgara,” Ran Borune said.
“I think we’ve done everything we can here,” Wolf decided.
A bronze door at the back of the garden slammed open, and a tiny girl with flaming hair stormed through, her eyes ablaze. At first Garion thought she was a child, but as she came closer, he realized that she was somewhat older than that. Although she was very small, the short, sleeveless green tunic she wore displayed limbs that were much closer to maturity. He felt a peculiar kind of shock when he saw her – almost, but not quite, like recognition. Her hair was a tumbled mass with long, elaborate curls cascading down over her neck and shoulders, and it was a color that Garion had never seen before, a deep, burnished red that seemed somehow to glow from within. Her skin was a golden color that seemed, as she swept through the shadows of the trees near the gate, to have an almost greenish cast to it. She was in a state verging on sheer rage. “Why am I being kept prisoner here?” she demanded of the Emperor.
“What are you talking about?” Ran Borune asked.
“The legionnaires won’t let me leave the palace grounds!”
“Oh,” the Emperor said, “that.”
“Exactly. That. ”
“They’re acting on my orders, Ce’Nedra,” the Emperor told her.
“So they said. Tell them too stop it.”
“No.”
“No?” Her tone was incredulous. “No?” Her voice climbed several octaves. “What do you mean, no?”
“It’s too dangerous for you to be out in the city just now,” the Emperor said placatingly.
“Nonsense,” she snapped. “I don’t intend to sit around in this stuffy palace just because you’re afraid of your own shadow. I need some things from the market.”
“Send someone.”
“I don’t want to send anyone!” she shouted at him. “I want to go myself.”
“Well, you can’t,” he said flatly. “Spend your time on your studies instead.”
“I don’t want to study,” she cried. “Jeebers is a stuffy idiot, and he bores me. I don’t want to sit around talking about history or politics or any of the rest of it. I just want an afternoon to myself.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Please, father,” she begged, her tone dropping into a wheedling note. She took hold of one of the folds of his gold mantle and twisted it around one of her tiny fingers. “Please.” The look she directed at the Emperor through her lashes would have melted stone.
“Absolutely not,” he said, refusing to look at her. “My order stands. You will not leave the palace grounds.”
“I hate you!” she cried. Then she ran from the garden in tears. “My daughter,” the Emperor explained almost apologetically. “You can’t imagine what it’s like having a child like that.”
“Oh, I can imagine, all right,” Mister Wolf said, glancing at Aunt Pol. She looked back at him, her eyes challenging.
“Go ahead and say it, father,” she told him. “I’m sure you won’t be happy until you do.”
Wolf shrugged. “Forget it.”
Ran Borune looked thoughtfully at the two of them. “It occurs to me that we might be able to negotiate a bit here,” he said, his eyes narrowing.
“What did you have in mind?” Wolf asked.
“You have a certain authority among the Alorns,” the Emperor suggested.
“Some,” Wolf admitted carefully.
“If you were to ask them, I’m sure they’d be willing to overlook one of the more absurd provisions of the Accords of Vo Mimbre.”
“Which one is that?”
“There’s really no necessity for Ce’Nedra to journey to Riva, is there? I’m the last emperor of the Borune Dynasty, and when I die, she won’t be an Imperial Princess anymore. Under the circumstances, I’d say that the requirement doesn’t really apply to her. It’s nonsense anyway. The line of the Rivan King became extinct thirteen hundred years ago, so there isn’t going to be any bridegroom waiting for her in the Hall of the Rivan King. As you’ve seen, Tolnedra’s a very dangerous place just now. Ce’Nedra’s sixteenth birthday’s only a year or so off, and the date’s well known. If I have to send her to Riva, half the assassins in the Empire are going to be lurking outside the palace gates, waiting for her to come out. I’d rather not take that kind of risk. If you could see your way clear to speak to the Alorns, I might be able to make a few concessions regarding the Murgos – restrictions on their numbers, closed areas, that sort of thing.”
“No, Ran Borune,” Aunt Pol said flatly. “Ce’Nedra will go to Riva. You’ve failed to understand that the Accords are only a formality. If your daughter’s the one destined to become the bride of the Rivan King, no force on earth can prevent her from being in the throne room at Riva on the appointed day. My father’s recommendations about the Murgos are only suggestions – for your own good. What you choose to do about the matter is your affair.”
“I think we’ve just about exhausted the possibilities of this conversation,” the Emperor stated coldly.
Two important-looking officials came into the garden and spoke briefly to Lord Morin.
“Your Highness,” the gray-haired chamberlain said deferentially, “the Minister of Trade wanted to inform you that he’s reached an excellent agreement with the trade deputation from Rak Goska. The gentlemen from Cthol Murgos were most accommodating.”
“I’m delighted to hear it,” Ran Borune said, throwing a meaningful look at Mister Wolf.
“The contingent from Rak Goska would like to pay their respects before they leave,” Morin added.
“By all means,” the Emperor said. “I’ll be delighted to receive them here.”
Morin turned and nodded shortly to the two officials near the gate. The officials turned and spoke to someone outside, and the gate swung open.
Five Murgos strode into the garden. Their coarse black robes were hooded, but the hoods were thrown back. The front of their robes were unclasped, and the chain mail shirts they all wore gleamed in the sunlight. The Murgo in front was a bit taller than the others, and his bearing indicated that he was the leader of the deputation. A welter of images and partial memories flooded Garion’s mind as he looked at the scar-faced enemy he had known all his life. The strange pull of the silent, hidden linkage between them touched him. It was Asharak.
Something brushed Garion’s mind, tentative only – not the powerful force the Murgo had directed at him in the dim hallway in Anheg’s palace at Val Alorn. The amulet under his tunic became very cold and yet seemed to burn at the same time.
“Your Imperial Highness,” Asharak said, striding forward with a cold smile, “we are honored to be admitted into your august presence.” He bowed, his mail shirt clinking.