The Belgariad 5: Enchanter's End Game (3 page)

Belgarath was shaking his head with a rueful expression. "It's almost like talking to a child sometimes," he said. "It has no conception of numbers, and it can't even begin to comprehend the meaning of the word danger."

"It's still there," Silk noted, sounding a bit disappointed. "I can still see the sword."

"That's because you know it's there," Belgarath told him. "Other people will overlook it."

"How can you overlook something that big?" Silk objected.

"It's very complicated," Belgarath replied. "The Orb is simply going to encourage people not to see it - or the sword. If they look very closely, they might realize that Garion's carrying something on his back, but they won't be curious enough about it to try to find out what it is. As a matter of fact, quite a few people won't even notice Garion himself."

"Are you trying to say that Garion's invisible?"

"No. He's just sort of unremarkable for the time being. Let's move on. Night comes on quickly up in these mountains."

Yar Gurak was perhaps the ugliest town Garion had ever seen. It was strung out on either side of a roiling yellow creek, and muddy, unpaved streets ran up the steep slopes of the cut the stream had gouged out of the hills. The sides of the cut beyond the town had been stripped of all vegetation. There were shafts running back into the hillsides, and great, rooted-out excavations. There were springs among the diggings, and they trickled muddy water down the slopes to pollute the creek. The town had a slapdash quality about it, and all the buildings seemed somewhat temporary. Construction was, for the most part, log and uncut rock, and several of the houses had been finished off with canvas.

The streets teemed with lanky, dark-faced Nadraks, many of whom were obviously drunk. A nasty brawl erupted out of a tavern door as they entered the town, and they were forced to stop while perhaps two dozen Nadraks rolled about in the mud, trying with a fair amount of success to incapacitate or even maim each other.

The sun was going down as they found an inn at the end of a muddy street. It was a large, square building with the main floor constructed of stone, a second storey built of logs, and stables attached to the rear. They put up their horses, took a room for the night, and then entered the barnlike common room in search of supper. The benches in the common room were a bit unsteady, and the tabletops were grease. smeared and littered with crumbs and spilled food. Oil lamps hung smoking on chains, and the smell of cooking cabbage was overpowering. A fair number of merchants from various parts of the world sat at their evening meal in the room - wary-eyed men in tight little groups, with walls of suspicion drawn around them.

Belgarath, Silk, and Garion sat down at an unoccupied table and ate the stew brought to them in wooden bowls by a tipsy servingman in a greasy apron. When they had finished, Silk glanced at the open doorway leading into the noisy taproom and then looked inquiringly at Belgarath.

The old man shook his head. "Better not," he said. "Nadraks are a high-strung people, and relations with the West are a little tense just now. There's no point in asking for trouble."

Silk nodded his glum agreement and led the way up the stairs at the back of the inn to the room they had taken for the night. Garion held up their guttering candle and looked dubiously at the log-frame bunks standing against the walls of the room. The bunks had rope springs and mattresses stuffed with straw; they looked lumpy and not very clean. The noise from the taproom below was loud and raucous.

"I don't think we're going to get much sleep tonight," he observed. "Mining towns aren't like farm villages," Silk pointed out. "Farmers feel the need for decorum - even when they're drunk. Miners tend on the whole to be somewhat rowdier."

Belgarath shrugged. "They'll quiet down in a bit. Most of them will be unconscious long before midnight." He turned to Silk. "As soon as the shops open up in the morning, I want you to get us some different clothing - used, preferably. If we look like gold hunters, nobody's going to pay very much attention to us. Get a pick handle and a couple of rock hammers. We'll tie them to the outside of the pack on our spare horse for show."

"I get the feeling you've done this before."

"From time to time. It's a useful disguise. Gold hunters are crazy to begin with, so people aren't surprised if they show up in strange places." The old man laughed shortly. "I even found gold once - a vein as thick as your arm."

Silk's face grew immediately intent. "Where?"

Belgarath shrugged. "Off that way somewhere," he replied with a vague gesture. "I forget exactly."

"Belgarath," Silk objected with a note of anguish in his voice.

"Don't get sidetracked," Belgarath told him. "Let's get some sleep. I want to be out of here as early as possible tomorrow morning."

The overcast which had lingered for weeks cleared off during the night; when Garion awoke, the new-risen sun streamed golden through the dirty window. Belgarath was seated at the rough table on the far side of the room, studying a parchment map, and Silk had already left.

"I thought for a while that you were going to sleep past noon," the old man said as Garion sat up and stretched.

"I had trouble getting to sleep last night," Garion replied. "It was a little noisy downstairs."

"Nadraks are like that."

A sudden thought occurred to Garion. "What do you think Aunt Pol is doing just now?" he asked.

"Sleeping, probably."

"Not this late."

"It's much earlier where she is."

"I don't follow that."

"Riva's fifteen hundred leagues west of here," Belgarath explained. "The sun won't get that far for several hours yet."

Garion blinked. "I hadn't thought of that," he admitted.

"I didn't think you had."

The door opened, and Silk came in, carrying several bundles and wearing an outraged expression. He threw his bundles down and stamped to the window, muttering curses under his breath.

"What's got you so worked up?" Belgarath asked mildly.

"Would you look at this?" Silk waved a piece of parchment at the old man.

"What's the problem?" Belgarath took the parchment and read it. "That whole business was settled years ago," Silk declared in an irntated voice. "What are these things doing, still being circulated?"

"The description is colorful," Belgarath noted.

"Did you see that?" Silk sounded mortally offended. He turned to Garion. "Do I look like a weasel to you?"

"-an ill-favored, weasel-faced man," Belgarath read, "shifty-eyed and with a long, pointed nose. A notorious cheat at dice."

"Do you mind?"

"What's this all about?" Garion asked.

"I had a slight misunderstanding with the authorities some years ago," Silk explained deprecatingly. "Nothing all that serious, actually, but they're still circulating that thing." He gestured angrily at the parchment Belgarath was still reading with an amused expression. "They've even gone so far as to offer a reward. " He considered for a moment. "I'll have to admit that the sum is flattering, though," he added.

"Did you get the things I sent you after?" Belgarath asked.

"Of course."

"Let's change clothes, then, and leave before your unexpected celebrity attracts a crowd."

The worn Nadrak clothing was made mostly of leather-snug black trousers, tight-fitting vests, and short-sleeved linen tunics.

"I didn't bother with the boots," Silk said. "Nadrak boots are pretty uncomfortable - probably since it hasn't occurred to them yet that there's a difference between the right foot and the left." He settled a pointed felt cap at a jaunty angle. "What do you think?" he asked, striking a pose.

"Doesn't look at all like a weasel, does he?" Belgarath asked Garion. Silk gave him a disgusted look, but said nothing.

They went downstairs, led their horses out of the stables attached to the inn, and mounted. Silk's expression remained sour as they rode out of Yar Gurak. When they reached the top of a hill to the north of town, he slid off his horse, picked up a rock, and threw it rather savagely at the buildings clustered below.

"Make you feel better?" Belgarath asked curiously.

Silk remounted with a disdainful sniff and led the way down the other side of the hill.

THEY RODE FOR the next few days through a wilderness of stone and stunted trees. The sun grew warmer each day, and the sky overhead was intensely blue as they pressed deeper and deeper into the snowcapped mountains. There were trails of sorts up here, winding, vagrant tracks meandering between the dazzling white peaks and across the high, pale green meadows where wildflowers nodded in the mountain breeze. The air was spiced with the resinous odor of evergreens, and now and then they saw deer grazing or stopping to watch them with large, startled eyes as they passed.

Belgarath moved confidently in a generally eastward course and he appeared to be alert and watchful. There were no signs of the half doze in which he customarily rode on more clearly defined roads, and he seemed somehow younger up here in the mountains.

They encountered other travelers - leather-clad Nadraks for the most part - although they did see a party of Drasnians laboring up a steep slope and, once, a long way off, what appeared to be a Tolnedran. Their exchanges with these others were brief and wary. The mountains of Gar og Nadrak were at best sketchily policed, and it was necessary for every man who entered them to provide for his own security.

The sole exception to this suspicious taciturnity was a garrulous old gold hunter mounted on a donkey, who appeared out of the blue-tinged shadows under the trees one morning. His tangled hair was white, and his clothing was mismatched, appearing to consist mostly of castoffs he had found beside this trail or that. His tanned, wrinkled face was weathered like a well-cured old hide, and his blue eyes twinkled merrily. He joined them without any greeting or hint of uncertainty as to his welcome and began talking immediately as if taking up a conversation again that had only recently been interrupted.

There was a sort of comic turn to his voice and manner that Garion found immediately engaging.

"Must be ten years or more since I've followed this path," he began, jouncing along on his donkey as he fell in beside Garion. "I don't come down into this part of the mountains very much any more. The streambeds down here have all been worked over a hundred times at least. Which way are you bound?"

"I'm not really sure," Garion replied cautiously. "I've never been up here before, so I'm just following along."

"You'd find better gravel if you struck out to the north," the man on the donkey advised, "up near Morindland. Of course, you've got to be careful up there, but, like they say, no risk, no profit." He squinted curiously at Garion. "You're not a Nadrak, are you?"

"Sendar," Garion responded shortly.

"Never been to Sendaria," the old gold hunter mused. "Never been anyplace really - except up here." He looked around at the whitetopped peaks and deep green forests with a sort of abiding love. "Never really wanted to go anyplace else. I've picked these mountains over from end to end for seventy years now and never made much at it except for the pleasure of being here. Found a river bar one time, though, that had so much red gold in it that it looked like it was bleeding. Winter caught me up there, and I almost froze to death trying to come out."

"Did you go back the next spring?" Garion couldn't help asking. "Meant to, but I did a lot of drinking that winter - I had gold enough. Anyway, the drink sort of addled my brains. When I set out the following year, I took along a few kegs for company. That's always a mistake. The drink takes you harder when you get up into the mountains, and you don't always pay attention to things the way you should." He leaned back in his donkey saddle, scratching reflectively at his stomach. "I went out onto the plains north of the mountains - up in Morindland. Seems that I thought at the time that the going might be easier out on flat ground. Well, to make it short, I ran across a band of Morindim and they took me prisoner. I'd been up to my ears in an ale keg for a day or so, and I was far gone when they took me. Lucky, I guess. Morindim are superstitious, and they thought I was possessed. That's probably all that saved my life. They kept me for five or six years, trying to puzzle out the meaning behind my ravings - once I got sober and saw the situation, I took quite a bit of care to do a lot of raving. Eventually they got tired of it and weren't so careful about watching me, so I escaped. By then I'd sort of forgotten exactly where that river was. I look for it now and then when I'm up that way." His speech seemed rambling, but his old blue eyes were very penetrating. "That's a big sword you're carrying, boy, Who do you plan to kill with it?"

The question came so fast that Garion did not even have time to be startled.

"Funny thing about that sword of yours," the shabby old man added shrewdly. "It seems to be going out of its way to make itself inconspicuous." Then he turned to Belgarath, who was looking at him with a level gaze. "You haven't hardly changed at all," he noted.

"And you still talk too much," Belgarath replied.

"I get hungry for talk every few years," the old man on the donkey admitted. "Is your daughter well?"