“Did you see anybody back there?” Garion asked him.
“Back where?” the servant said, obviously not recognizing his king.
“Back along the hall.”
The servant shook his head. “I haven’t seen anyone since I left the apartments of the King of Drasnia,” he replied. “Would you believe that this is his third breakfast? I’ve never seen anybody eat so much.” He looked curiously at Garion. “You shouldn’t be back here, you know,” he warned. “If the head cook catches you, he’ll thrash you. He doesn’t like anybody in this hall who doesn’t have business here.”
“I’m just on my way to the stables,” Garion told him.
“I’d move right along, then. The head cook’s got a vicious temper.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Garion assured him.
Lelldorin was coming out of the stable, and he gave Garion a startled look as the two of them approached each other in the snowy courtyard. “How did you manage to escape from all the officials?” he asked. Then, as if remembering, he bowed.
“Please don’t do that, Lelldorin,” Garion told him.
“The situation is a bit awkward, isn’t it?” Lelldorin agreed.
“We’ll behave toward each other the same as we always have behaved,” Garion said firmly. “At least until they tell us we can’t. Have you any idea where Silk might be?”
“I saw him earlier this morning,” Lelldorin replied. “He said he was going to visit the baths. He looked a bit unwell. I think he celebrated last night.”
“Let’s go find him,” Garion suggested. “I’ve got to talk to him.”
They found Silk sitting in a tiled stone room thick with steam. The little man had a towel about his waist and he was sweating profusely.
“Are you sure this is good for you?” Garion asked, waving his hand in front of his face to clear an eddying cloud of steam.
“Nothing would really be good for me this morning, Garion,” Silk replied sadly. He put his elbows on his knees and sank his face miserably into his hands.
“Are you sick?”
“Horribly.”
“If you knew it was going to make you feel this way, why did you drink so much last night?”
“It seemed like a good idea at the time—at least I think it did. I seem to have lost track of several hours.” An attendant brought the suffering man a foaming tankard, and Silk drank deeply.
“Is that really wise?” Lelldorin asked him.
“Probably not,” Silk admitted with a shudder, “but it’s the best I could come up with on short notice.” He shuddered again. “I feel absolutely wretched,” he declared. “Was there anything in particular you wanted?”
“I’ve got a problem,” Garion blurted. He looked quickly at Lelldorin. “I’d rather this didn’t go beyond the three of us,” he said.
“You have my oath on it,” Lelldorin responded instantly.
“Thank you, Lelldorin.” It was easier to accept the oath than to try to explain why it wasn’t really necessary. “I’ve just read the Accords of Vo Mimbre,” he told them. “Actually, I had them read to me. Did you know that I’m supposed to marry Ce’Nedra?”
“I hadn’t actually put that part together yet,” Silk admitted, “but the Accords do mention something about it, don’t they?”
“Congratulations, Garion!” Lelldorin exclaimed, suddenly clapping his friend on the shoulder. “She’s a beautiful girl.”
Garion ignored that. “Can you think of some way I can get out of it?” he demanded of Silk.
“Garion, right now I can’t really think of anything except how awful I feel. My first hunch though, is that there isn’t any way out for you. Every kingdom in the west is signatory to the Accords—and then I think the Prophecy’s involved too.”
“I’d forgotten about that,” Garion admitted glumly.
“I’m sure they’ll give you time to get used to the idea,” Lelldorin said.
“But how much time will they give Ce’Nedra? I talked to her this morning, and she’s not happy about the idea at all.”
“She doesn’t actually dislike you,” Silk told him.
“That’s not what the problem is. She seems to think that I outrank her, and that’s what’s got her upset.”
Silk began to laugh weakly.
“A real friend wouldn’t laugh,” Garion accused him.
“Is rank really that important to your princess?” Lelldorin asked.
“Probably not much more important than her right arm,” Garion replied sourly. “I think she reminds herself that she’s an Imperial Princess six or eight times every hour. She makes a pretty big issue about it. Now I come along from out of nowhere, and suddenly I outrank her. It’s the sort of thing that’s going to set her teeth on edge-permanently, I expect.” He stopped and looked rather closely at Silk. “Do you think there’s any chance of your getting well today?”
“What have you got in mind?”
“Do you know your way around Riva at all?”
“Naturally.”
“I was sort of thinking that I ought to go down into the city—not with trumpets blowing and all that—but just dressed like somebody ordinary. I don’t know anything at all about the Rivans, and now—” He faltered with it.
“And now you’re their king,” Lelldorin finished for him.
“It’s probably not a bad idea,” Silk agreed. “Though I can’t really say for sure. My brain isn’t working too well just now. It will have to be today, of course. Your coronation’s scheduled for tomorrow, and your movements are likely to be restricted after they’ve put the crown on your head.”
Garion didn’t want to think about that.
“I hope the two of you don’t mind if I take a little while to pull myself together first, though,” Silk added, drinking from the tankard again. “Actually it doesn’t really matter if you mind or not. It’s a question of necessity.”
It took the rat-faced little man only about an hour to recuperate. His remedies were brutally direct. He soaked up hot steam and cold ale in approximately equal amounts, then emerged from the steamroom to plunge directly into a pool of icy water. He was blue and shaking when he came out, but the worst of his indisposition seemed to be gone. He carefully selected nondescript clothes for the three of them, then led the way out of the Citadel by way of a side gate. As they left, Garion glanced back several times, but he seemed to have shaken off the persistent attendant who had been following him all morning.
As they wandered down into the city, Garion was struck again by the bleak severity of the place. The outsides of the houses were uniformly gray and totally lacking any form of exterior decoration. They were solid, square, and absolutely colorless. The gray cloak which was the outstanding feature of the Rivan national costume gave the people in the narrow streets an appearance of that same grimness. Garion quailed a bit at the thought of spending the rest of his life in so uninviting a place.
They walked down a long street in pale winter sunshine with the salt smell of the harbor strong in their nostrils and passed a house from which came the sound of children singing. Their voices were very clear and merged together in subtle harmonies. Garion was astonished at the complexity of the children’s song.
“A national pastime,” Silk said. “Rivans are very much involved in music. I suppose it helps relieve the boredom. I’d hate to offend your Majesty, but your kingdom’s a tedious sort of place.” He looked around. “I have an old friend who lives not far from here. Why don’t we pay him a visit?”
He led them down a long stairway to the street below. Not far up that street a large building stood solidly on the downhill side. Silk strode up to the door and knocked. After a moment, a Rivan in a burn-spotted leather smock answered. “Radek, old friend,” he said with a certain surprise. “I haven’t seen you in years.”
“Torgan.” Silk grinned at him. “I thought I’d stop by and see how you were doing.”
“Come in, come in,” Torgan said, opening the door wider.