“She’s been looking for something, father,” Polgara told the old man. “I saw that in her mind when I trapped her back in Rak Hagga.”
He looked at her thoughtfully. “Could you get any idea of what it was, Pol?”
She shook her head. “Not specifically,” she replied. “I think it’s information of some kind. She can’t go any further until she finds it. I was able to pick that much out of her thoughts.”
“Whatever it is, has to be well hidden,” he said. “Beldin and I took Ashaba apart after the Battle of Vo Mimbre and we didn’t find anything out of the ordinary—if you can accept the idea that Torak’s house was in any way ordinary.”
“Can we be sure that she’s still there with my baby?” Ce’Nedra asked intently.
“No, dear,” Polgara told her. “She’s taken steps to hide her mind from me. She’s rather good, actually.”
“Even if she’s left Ashaba, the Orb can pick up her trail again,” Belgarath said. “The chances are pretty good that she hasn’t found what she’s looking for, and that effectively nails her down at Ashaba. If she has found it, she won’t be hard to follow.”
“We’re going on to Ashaba, then?” Sadi asked. “What I’m getting at is that our concern about Mengha was just a ruse to get us to Mallorea, wasn’t it?”
“I think I’m going to need more information before I make any decisions about that. The situation in northern Karanda is serious, certainly, but let’s not lose sight of the fact that our primary goal is Zandramas, and she’s at Ashaba. Before I can decide anything, though, I need to know more about what’s going on here in Mallorea.”
“My department,” Silk volunteered.
“And mine,” Velvet added.
“I might be able to help a bit as well,” Sadi noted with a faint smile. He frowned then. “Seriously though, Belgarath,” he continued, “you and your family here represent power. I don’t think we’re going to have much luck at persuading Kal Zakath to let you go willingly—no matter how cordial he may appear on the surface.”
The old man nodded glumly. “It might turn out that way after all,” he agreed. Then he looked at Silk, Velvet, and Sadi. “Be careful,” he cautioned them, “Don’t let your instincts run away with you. I need information, but don’t stir up any hornets’ nests getting it for me.” He looked pointedly at Silk. “I hope I’ve made myself clear about this,” he said. “Don’t complicate things just for the fun of it.”
“Trust me, Belgarath,” Silk replied with a bland smile.
“Of course he trusts you, Kheldar,” Velvet assured the little man.
Belgarath looked at his impromptu spy network and shook his head. “Why do I get the feeling that I’m going to regret this?” he muttered.
“I’ll keep an eye on them, Belgarath,” Sadi promised.
“Of course, but who’s going to keep an eye on you?”
7
That evening they were escorted with some ceremony through the echoing halls of ’Zakath’s palace to a banquet hall that appeared to be only slightly smaller than a parade ground. The hall was approached by way of a broad, curved stairway lined on either side with branched candelabra and liveried trumpeteers. The stairway was obviously designed to facilitate grand entrances. Each new arrival was announced by a stirring fanfare and the booming voice of a gray-haired herald so thin that it almost appeared that a lifetime of shouting had worn him down to a shadow.
Garion and his friends waited in a small antechamber while the last of the local dignitaries were announced.
The fussy chief of protocol, a small Melcene with an elaborately trimmed brown beard, wanted them to line up in ascending order of rank, but the difficulties involved in assigning precise rank to the members of this strange group baffled him. He struggled with it, manfully trying to decide if Sorcerer outranked King or Imperial Princess until Garion solved his problem for him by leading Ce’Nedra out onto the landing at the top of the stairs.
“Their Royal Majesties, King Belgarion and Queen Ce’Nedra of Riva,” the herald declaimed grandly, and the trumpets blared.
Garion, dressed all in blue and with his ivory-gowned Queen on his arm, paused on the marble landing at the top of the stairs to allow the brightly clad throng below the time to gawk at him. The somewhat dramatic pause was not entirely his idea. Ce’Nedra had dug her fingernails into his arm with a grip of steel and hissed, “Stand still! ”
It appeared that ’Zakath also had some leaning toward the theatrical, since the stunned silence which followed the herald’s announcement clearly indicated that the Emperor had given orders that the identity of his guests remain strictly confidential until this very moment. Garion was honest enough with himself to admit that the startled buzz which ran through the crowd below was moderately gratifying.
He began down the stairway, but found himself reined in like a restive horse. “Don’t run!” Ce’Nedra commanded under her breath.
“Run?” he objected. “I’m barely moving.”
“Do it slower, Garion.”
He discovered then that his wife had a truly amazing talent. She could speak without moving her lips! Her smile was gracious, though somewhat lofty, but a steady stream of low-voiced commands issued from that smile.
The buzzing murmur that had filled the banquet hall when they had been announced died into a respectful silence when they reached the foot of the stair, and a vast wave of bows and curtsies rippled through the crowd as they moved along the carpeted promenade leading to the slightly elevated platform upon which sat the table reserved for the Emperor and his special guests, domestic and foreign.
’Zakath himself, still in his customary white, but wearing a gold circlet artfully hammered into the form of a wreath woven of leaves as a concession to the formality of the occasion, rose from his seat and came to meet them, thereby avoiding that awkward moment when two men of equal rank meet in public. “So good of you to come, my dear,” he said, taking Ce’Nedra’s hand and kissing it. He sounded for all the world like a country squire or minor nobleman greeting friends from the neighborhood.
“So good of you to invite us,” she replied with a whimsical smile.
“You’re looking well, Garion,” the Mallorean said, extending his hand and still speaking in that offhand and informal manner.
“Tolerable, ’Zakath,” Garion responded, taking his cue from his host. If ’Zakath wanted to play, Garion felt that he should show him that he could play, too.
“Would you care to join me at the table?” ’Zakath asked. “We can chat while we wait for the others to arrive.”
“Of course,” Garion agreed in a deliberately commonplace tone of voice.
When they reached their chairs, however, his curiosity finally got the better of him. “Why are we playing ‘just plain folks’?” he asked ’Zakath as he held Ce’Nedra’s chair for her. “This affair’s a trifle formal for talking about the weather and asking after each other’s health, wouldn’t you say?”
“It’s baffling the nobility,” ’Zakath replied with aplomb. “Never do the expected, Garion. The hint that we’re old, old friends will set them afire with curiosity and make people who thought that they knew everything just a little less sure of themselves.” He smiled at Ce’Nedra. “You’re positively ravishing tonight, my dear,” he told her.
Ce’Nedra glowed then looked archly at Garion. “Why don’t you take a few notes, dear?” she suggested. “You could learn a great deal from his Majesty here.” She turned back to ’Zakath. “You’re so very kind to say it,” she told him, “but my hair is an absolute disaster.” Her expression was faintly tragic as she lightly touched her curls with her fingertips. Actually, her hair was stupendous, with a coronet of braids interwoven with strings of pearls and with a cascade of coppery ringlets spilling down across the front of her left shoulder.
During this polite exchange, the others in their party were being introduced. Silk and Velvet caused quite a stir, he in his jewel-encrusted doublet and she in a gown of lavender brocade.